Community Service
by Onceforthefun
Summary: Quinn hasn't spoken to a single member of Glee since she ended her relationship with Puck, quit Yale, and moved out west to pursue an acting career. While doing her court ordered community service, Quinn ends up talking to someone who ends up reminding her of her past. As she finds herself connecting with her mystery caller, she realizes that some things you can't leave behind.
1. Community Service

Every time Quinn descended the steps down to the subfloor of the psychology building on UCLA's campus-and so far she had done so 43 times, 44 if you counted her interview-she felt a small sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was as if the world was telling her she literally couldn't go any lower than where she was right now: the bottom floor. If this was supposed to be her 'ah ha' moment, she didn't know what the lesson was supposed to be, but she couldn't deny that she felt _something_ about it; she just wasn't able to work out what that something was.

Each time she walked down the steps, she counted each and every one, reminding herself how many more times she had to do so. There were 26 steps, a landing, and 20 more, from the top floor to the bottom, and no matter what had been done to the space, the cheerful posters on the wall, the couch, the cubicles, even the height of the ceiling, nothing had been able to hide the fact that she was in a basement.

But at least it was better than a closet.

Quinn got comfortable in the cubicle she established as 'hers', even though there was no sense of ownership in this place where people came and went, and worked out shifts, and adjusted the seats to varying lengths. There were no pictures in any of the cubes because although there were some like Ted, and Jill, and Tishawna, who were selfless and would probably die in this room someday, headset still on, most people only came here at the behest of the court to fulfill a social outreach or community service requirement. Hence why Quinn was here.

At the start of her shift at 10:00 at night, there were far more people. New ones coming in, old ones leaving, the phones all alight, everyone in front of a computer screen, typing away. But slowly the room emptied, so that by midnight, there's only a handful of people still left, and for the moment the typing slows, calls don't come in as often. The early evening desperation has momentarily tapered off until the early morning desperation can take over. People, even in crisis, are predictable.

It's eerily quiet as the night deepens; time crawls along because it's Wednesday, and Wednesday's are slow like that. On every other day, they usually got a lot of calls around this time, but not on Wednesday night. As a rule, people never questioned who they were on Wednesday nights/Thursday mornings.

Quinn grunts at the fact that it's only midnight. It'd felt like she'd been here for far longer than that, but no. It was only midnight, in L.A. which meant that it was 1:00, 2:00, and 3:00 in all the rest of the parts of the country, and specifically New York. 3:00 was the time to have a crisis of conscious; the bars had closed by now, and if you couldn't find someone to slink home to, well then you had nothing else to do but sit back and think of your life and everything that went wrong in it, before your crashed, alone and lonely, into a drunken stupor. If it weren't for it being a Wednesday, this was usually when the screens and phone lines lit up.

There were two other naughty children who routinely worked this shift with her: Thai Smith, and Rosalita Alvarez, but where they were right now was anyone's guess. Tishawna was usually the monitor that worked the 10 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. shift, but she wasn't here, either, and if she didn't show up before it was time for Quinn to leave, she would send her a text because she wasn't going to be here if she didn't get credit for it. She had been ordered down those 46 steps 48 times (49 if you counted the interview), and she'd be damned if she gave this place any more of her time then that.

Quinn blinked at her blank screen. She wanted a drink. No, to say that would be to oversimplify something that was far more complicated. Quinn didn't _want _a drink she _needed _it. Her body cried out for it, and every gulp of the water that she sipped, and swallowed down, was too pure, it didn't burn, it didn't wipe away the sharp lines, and harsh light. It didn't make the world more manageable. It would have been lovely to have a drink or two before her shift started, it would make things so much easier, but instead she was here, listening or reading off problems from those who actually got to have her drinks, and she was envious. If Quinn could have just one she knew everything would be better. It always was.

She watched the cursor blink at the bottom of the chat screen. As much as she hated it when people called or dropped in for a chat, she doubly hated it when she had to spend four hours of quiet time, contemplating her life when she had been doing really well with going years without doing that. There was only a small part of her that connected that the people who were getting in contact with the center were people with problems, who may or may not have been close to giving up. She wasn't too worried about that. She preferred their audience mostly because their absence just made time drag by. As this was a sentence as it was, she didn't need it to go by any slower than it already had been.

Quinn realized that she shouldn't complain. Not much anyway. She could have just as easily been picking up litter in MacArthur Park (a pointless task if ever there were one), or working in a soup kitchen, feeding the city's homeless, and believe her, there were a _lot _of them. There were a handful of homeless people in Lima, but everyone knew all them, and there were plenty in New Haven, and people pretended they didn't know them, but LA was a completely different story.

She had never before experienced homelessness the way Los Angeles experienced homelessness. She had been startled when a homeless guy sitting on the bench beside her had just started shaving himself. In the middle of a bus stop. But that was nothing compared to the guy who just lay in the middle of the sidewalk, daring people to acknowledge him as he got stepped over. And then there was Skid Row, where you could actually run into people that didn't have a full outfit to their name. The worst thing about it all, though, was the smell. God, that awful smell of unbathed skin, and unfulfilled and unattainable dreams, left soaking in the sun for 4 hours a day, until well cooked. Quinn hadn't been so naïve as to think that the roads of Hollywood were paved in gold, but she certainly wasn't expecting them to be filled with bodies either.

Being here kept her from having to go out and serve her community service in those venues. Instead she got the honor of being in the basement of one of the finest colleges in the country. It seemed fitting, in a way. She had left one of the country's finest institutions of higher learning, where she had been near the top of her class, for the bright lights and glamour of Hollywood, and now she was sitting in the basement of another, less prestigious institute of higher learning in what was essentially a call center, living out some PH.D. candidate's wet dream.

The goal of said dream/project was to provide a 24-Hour helpline, but unlike the Trevor Hotline, or the Suicide Prevention hotline, the focus wasn't on talking someone down from the ledge, per se; its aim was just to talk. On any topic. Whatever the caller wanted (except things of a sexual nature…if it made the moderator uncomfortable). It wasn't meant to be informative, it wasn't meant to provide counseling explicitly, it was just to provide a set of ears, and (if they called in instead of chatted on the forum) a voice to respond back to them. Quinn didn't know if it was working, or helping to save lives (if she was being absolutely honest, she didn't care). All she cared about was that it fulfilled her court appointed community service requirement.

At a quarter to 1, Quinn got the indication that meant that someone was typing. It seemed to be taking a while so Quinn decided to initiate contact.

**Moderator**: _Hello. This is the Lighthouse. My name is _Emily_. How are you?"_

The one redeeming thing about this place was that it gave her the chance to work on her different characters. She never used her real-or other-name in this place; nor did she use her real voice. Here, like in generally every other aspect of her life, she didn't allow Quinn Fabray to exist.

The typing icon disappeared almost as soon as her words appeared. Had she scared them off? Okay, so maybe Quinn didn't care, but her alter ego Emily Stark, (and the three other characters she used regularly, Dana Evans, Lucille Hudson, and Sarah Mann), were far nicer than either Quinn Fabray or, far more often these days, Francesca Marcel, ever were.

**User**: _Drunk_.

Quinn read the words on the screen with amazement. Whether it was because it had taken five minutes for that one word to come out, or because the person was being brutally honest, and they were currently what Quinn wished she could be, she couldn't say.

_**Moderator**__: Nice to meet you, Drunk. That's a unique name._

**User**_: S'not mi nam._

**Moderator**_: What's your name? _

**User**:Nohbdy_._

_**Moderator**__: Certainly you're somebody. _

**User**_: Duh. Not like nobody, nobody, _Nohbdy_ like the Cyclops in Odysus oddysseus Ohdiscius oh fuck it! _

Quinn found herself laughing.

_**Moderator**__: Odysseus?_

**User**_: If u knw who im talkin bout, y correct me?_

It was hard to read tone, but Quinn was sure that the caller had just snapped at her.

_**Moderator**__: Just wanted to make sure that I'm on the right page. _

**User**_: Hm. The Cyclops wasn't Od…him, but I'm like Odys._

'Nohbdy' seemed to have settled on an abbreviation for Odysseus.

**User**_: Escaping the ever seeing eye of the Cyclops, and so I'm _**Nohbdy**_._

Quinn changed the field input to reflect the two names.

**Emily**_: Are you in trouble?_

**Nohbdy**_: Probably._

**Emily**_: Who are you hiding from?_

**Nohbdy**_: Everyone. _

**Emily**_: Why are you hiding?_

Nohbdy is typing…Quinn let several minutes pass, then five more.

**Emily**_: _Nohbdy_?_

**Nohbdy**_: What're you wearing?_

**Emily**_: What?_

**Nohbdy**_: What're you wearing?_

**Emily**_: I don't see how that…_

**Nohbdy**_: Calm your tits. I'm a visual person. I'm wearing a tight fitting green dress. Like the color of Emerald City. Mebbe it's emerald. I'm all dressed up, with nowhere to go. I'm horny as hell. _

Quinn found it highly amusing that Nohbdy went back and forth between typing correctly, and using cell speak.

**Emily**_: So you want to know what I'm wearing because…?_

The caller was supposed to be the one to end the call (or the chat session if it was online), but the Moderators had permission to do so if the session turned sexual or violent. It wouldn't have been a first for Quinn because their seemed to be a collection of people out there who got turned on by that sort of thing.

**Nohbdy**_: _Emily_ sounds like someone who would be wearing garden dress and cover. Are you wearing a garden dress?_

**Emily**_: What's a 'garden' dress?_

**Nohbdy**_: Y'kno a dress u wear in t'garden. _

**Emily**_: I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt. _

**Nohbdy**_: What's T-shirt say?_

**Emily**_: We're way past 'Keeping Calm'._

_ …_

_ There was no activity for a minute._

**Nohbdy**_: LOL! I like it._

**Emily**_: Thank you._

**Nohbdy**_: Are you hot?_

**Emily**_: It's currently 89 degrees out, so not that hot._

_ …_

**Nohbdy**_: Are you being sarcastic?_

**Emily**_: Very much so._

**Nohbdy**_: It's not very nice._

**Emily**_: I didn't say I was nice. _

**Nohbdy**_: Good point. _

**Emily**_: Are you nice?_

**Nohbdy**_: No. I'm a bitch. _

Quinn snorted at the flat out honesty.

**Emily**_: You have to be the first female dog I've ever had the pleasure of talking to. _

Emilywas _far_ nicer than Quinn.

**Nohbdy**_: I can't help it. I'm a Scorpio. _

**Emily**_: I don't know what that's supposed to mean._

**Nohbdy**_: Astrology? Like the sign…nvm. D'you think that's why I'm alone tonight?_

**Emily**_: Possibly._

Okay, maybe not _far_, but she was nicer.

**Nohbdy**_: Fuck off._

**Emily**_: Is that your way of saying you wish to end this conversation?_

Quinn hoped not. Oddly she was enjoying this call. She needed have worried because the 'no!' came seconds later.

**Nohbdy**_: I'm in a strange city. That's why I'm alone. _

**Emily**_: What city are you in?_

**Nohbdy**_: Philadelphia._

**Emily**_: That's strange? _

**Nohbdy**_: It is to me. _

**Emily**_: Why are you in Philadelphia?_

**Nohbdy**_: I ask myself that every other night._

**Emily**_: Do you live there? Just moved there?_

**Nohbdy**_: No. Just passing through. I'm always just passing through._

It was a sentiment Quinn certainly could understand.

**Emily**_: Why is that?_

**Nohbdy**_: You know that thing Willie said? _

**Emily**_: Which Willie?_

**Nohbdy**_: The one who wrote all of the books?_

Quinn searched her memory for a Willie that wrote a lot of books.

**Emily**_: Shakespeare?_

**Nohbdy**_: Yea, hm. _

**Emily**_: He said a lot of things, which thing in particular?_

**Nohbdy**_: 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women are merely players. They have their exits and entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts'. _

The smile instantly washed off of Quinn's face, because yes, she's heard the words before, who hasn't? But for some reason they just struck a chord somewhere deep inside of her. Quinn played many roles. She always had. From Lucy, to Quinn, to Emily, to Francesca…

**Nohbdy**_: You still there? _

Quinn blinked, not realizing that she had zoned out. She read over the dialogue log, making sure she didn't miss anything.

**Emily**_: Yes._

**Nohbdy**_: It got you, too, then?_

**Emily**_: What got me? _

**Nohbdy**_: You're a pretender, like me. _

Quinn considered the words and thought screw it, she would never talk to this person ever again, never see them, never meet them, never know them. She didn't have a past with this person, she didn't have any ties to this person, this person didn't know if she was Helen Hunt or a psycho ax-murder and she would never find out. Quinn realized that she needed that. She needed anonymity.

**Emily**_: Yes. _

It was odd how that one word could be so freeing. She almost imagined her imaginary typer smiling all the way over in Philadelphia.

**Nohbdy**_: What do you pretend?_

**Emily**_: Everything. Mostly that I'm happy._

**Nohbdy**_: I stopped pretending about that a while ago. There's no one to tell anyway._

**Emily**_: Nobody? No friends?_

**Nohbdy**_: Some kids from high school; never see them, though. My bestie travels a lot. My other bestie disappeared off the face of the planet. None of our schedules match up, and I haven't made many friends after that._

**Emily**_: Why not?_

**Nohbdy**_: I travel too much, and I've never been good at making friends. I scare people._

Quinn knew that all too well. Yale had been all about transitioning from the Quinn that had ruled the school, to Quinn: Yale Freshman. It'd been so exhausting making the change, that Quinn found herself taking her first sips of alcohol since she quit being a skank.

**Emily**_: Why do you travel so much?_

**Nohbdy**_: You never told me if you were hot._

**Emily**_: What does it matter?_

**Nohbdy**_: It doesn't._

**Emily**_: Are you hot?_

**Nohbdy**_: Hells yes. _

**Emily**_: Must be nice to feel so confident. _

**Nohbdy**_: More pretend. I know I look good, and yet I still need to hear it from people to really believe it. Like I don't trust what I see in the mirror sometimes._

**Emily**_: I know what you mean. I don't trust what I see in the mirror most of the time. _

**Nohbdy: **_So you must not be hot. _

**Emily: **_You do realize that it could be considered cruel to try to get an ugly person to say that they're not hot. _

**Nohbdy: **_Meant no offence by it. I'm visual, 'member?_

**Emily: **Still…

**Nohbdy**_: What's your deal?_

**Emily**_: What do you mean?_

**Nohbdy**_: How did you end up on the other side of this conversation?_

Quinn hesitated for only a few seconds.

**Emily**_: I was drunk, and I got behind the wheel of a car. I almost ran someone off the road. _

**Nohbdy**_: This is your community service?_

**Emily**_: B-I-N-G-O._

**Nohbdy**_: Was the other person okay?_

**Emily**_: Yeah, I got the worst of it. Totaled my car. _

**Nohbdy**_: Are you a drunk?_

**Emily**_: Probably._

**Nohbdy**_: Why were you drinking?_

**Emily**_: It makes me nervous to drive._

**Nohbdy**_: So you drove drunk?_

**Emily**_: Do you not do stupid things?_

_ …_

**Nohbdy**_: Not in cars. _

**Emily**_: I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so perfect. _

**Nohbdy**_: Not. A friend of mine almost died in a car accident once. So I save my stupidity for things on the ground. _

**Emily**_: Sorry about your friend. _

**Nohbdy**_: Just don't drive drunk. Or distracted. It's just as bad._

_ Don't I know it, _Quinn thought.

**Emily**_: I'll try not to._

**Nohbdy**_: It's hard to read sarcasm off of a computer screen._

**Emily**_: I was only being half sarcastic. _

**Nohbdy**_: I'm for realz. Don't try, do. I don't care if you drink, but if you have the urge to get in a car drunk, you call me, I'll talk you out of it._

**Emily**_: I don't have your number._

**Nohbdy**_: It's XXX-XXX-XXXX_

_ …_

**Nohbdy**_: That's weird, my number isn't all X's._

**Emily**_: The filter blocks out phone numbers unless it's the number for the center. _

**Nohbdy**_: Huh. What else does the gestapo filter block?_

**Emily**_: Websites_

**Nohbdy**_: Shit, fuck, pussy, d***._

**Nohbdy**_: Really, it won't let me say d-y-k-e? Filter must be gay. F****t._

**Nohbdy**_: Definitely gay._

**Emily**_: That's not a nice word. _

**Nohbdy**_: You must be gay, too. _

**Emily**_: Because I don't think you should drop the f bomb?_

**Nohbdy**_: Are you gay?_

**Emily**_: On certain days of the week. Are you?_

**Nohbdy**_: Fuck yeah! I loves me some sushi. _

**Emily**_: That's one of the most unflattering characterizations of the female reproduction system that I've heard._

**Nohbdy**_: Really? The most unflattering? What about the gaping wound? The glory hole? The pumpkin patch. The cheesy taco?_

**Emily**_: Cheesy taco? I hope that's not a comment on your personal hygiene?_

**Nohbdy**_: Ew… of course not. I'm a rose garden, I meant the wet part of it. Cause if she's not wet, you're not doing something right. _

Quinn wasn't sure what possessed her when she typed out 'and she's always wet'?

**Nohbdy**_: For me, yep, always. I'm a goddess in bed. _

**Emily**_: LOL  
_**Nohbdy**_: Dafuq you laughing for? I rock!_

**Emily**_: Ever since 50 Shades of Gray/Grey I snort anytime someone says goddess. I can't help it. _

_ …_

**Nohbdy**_: You actually read the book._

**Emily**_: Books. _

When the script had landed on her desk, she had went out and read the books. She had had to force herself to do so, too, because the sex was the only thing that the books had going for them, and those weren't even all that great. Quinn knew a career killing film when she saw it, as did everyone else who had turned down the roles.

**Nohbdy**_: You don't have to be screened for this job, do you?_

**Emily**_: What do you mean?_

**Nohbdy**_: Between those books and getting behind the wheel drunk, you don't use good judgment. _

The words, whether they were intended to be funny, taken seriously, or whatever, Quinn didn't know why but they rubbed her so wrong. She didn't know what to respond to that. She thought about playing it off, agreeing to it, but when she went to type _probably _or something equally as flippant, her fingers shook. Getting angry wasn't an option either. _She _was the Moderator. She had five more of these lovely sessions to go, and if she ended up getting too snappish with one of the 'Users' she could very well not get a sign off on her service work, or even worse have her time extended. (She wasn't worried about actually doing jail time for her offense; California handed out more lifelines for probation than cats had lives).

Quinn finally typed.

**Emily**_: Ha ha. _

**Nohbdy**_: Ur pissed, rnt u? Don't be pissed. I don't want to go to sleep with someone else pissed at me._

**Emily**_: Who else did you manage to piss off tonight?_

**Nohbdy**_: Nobody. Tonight._

**Emily**_: Do you piss off people a lot?_

**Nohbdy**_: Not my fault if people don't want to hear it when I tell it like it is. Are you pissed? _

**Emily**_: Does it matter?_

**Nohbdy**_: Yeah, 'cuz it was a joke. Unclench your panties. I hear being a tight ass prematurely ages you. Do you have a nice ass? How old are you? Srry; I'm a horny drunk._

Quinn was amazed at how hot and cold this person, woman, (assuming they could be believed, for all she knew she could be talking to an 80 year old pedophile) was.

**Emily**_: 27. Are you still drunk?_

**Nohbdy**_: No, but I want to be._

**Emily**_: I know that feeling. Lucky you. _

**Nohbdy**_: I'm 27, too, that's for asking. _

**Emily**_: What, oh. You didn't give me a chance to ask. _

**Nohbdy**_: Would you have?_

**Emily**_: Would I have what?_

**Nohbdy**_: Asked me how old I was? _

**Emily**_: Probably not._

_**Nohbdy**__: Y not?_

**Emily**_: I don't offer up a lot of information about myself, so I wouldn't expect you to offer anything about yourself, and this is about you._

**Nohbdy**_: Is that what it says in the manual?_

**Emily**_: What manual?_

**Nohbdy**_: The one they give you when you're set free on us poor dregs of society that need someone to talk to so badly that they come to this web forum._

**Emily**_: Is that why you're here?_

**Nohbdy**_: I saw the website when I was trying to take a piss and I thought Y not? I don't want to try to sleep yet._

**Emily**_: Why not?_

**Nohbdy**_: Sleeping is for those who like to dream…and I don't._

_ …_

**Nohbdy**_: Wow, that sounded depressing, and suicidal, and whoa. It's not like that at all. I don't have to dream cause I'm living my dream right now. I just thought I'd talk to someone while I waited for the sun to come up, and I couldn't dial the number, so I got on the website instead. There's a QR code I scanned with my phone. _

**Emily**_: How long before the sun comes up?_

**Nohbdy**_: 6:13. 1h 25 min._

Quinn looked at the clock. It was 1:48. Her shift ended in 12 minutes. Quinn had been so occupied with the call that her usual question of where she was going to go after her shift ended hadn't crossed her mind in hours. It was a familiar problem: Heath lived pretty much right around the corner in Westwood Village on Glendon Ave, whereas her apartment was nearly half an hour away in Manhattan Beach, a considerable drive considering she wasn't supposed to be driving. It was too late to order a town car, and Quinn hated taxis. The only problem with spending the night at Heath's, her sometimes hook-up, was that she'd be spending the night at Heath's.

**Nohbdy**_: _Emily_? Still there?_

**Emily**_: Yes._

Quinn scanned the log to see what she missed. Nohbdy had talked about nothing in particular, except for when she asked what time her shift was over.

**Emily**_: 2:00. Ummm…5:00 your time. _

**Nohbdy**_: Where are you located?_

**Emily**_: Los Angeles. UCLA campus. _

Quinn was sure that this information was somewhere on the poster, or notice board, or wherever 'Nohbdy' had gotten the information from, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was supposed to be completely anonymous.

**Nohbdy**_: Know any celebrities?_

Quinn chuckled.

**Emily**_: Would you believe me if I said yes?_

**Nohbdy**_: Probably not. So, I guess I should say enjoy the rest of your morning?_

_ …_

**Emily**_: 1 hour and 25 minutes?_

**Nohbdy**_: 1h 15 now._

**Emily**_: My replacement hasn't come in yet; I'll stick around until they do. What happens after the sunrise?_

**Nohbdy**_: The world. _

**Emily**_: The sounds…vague. _

**Nohbdy**_: LOL. I go to bed. _

**Emily**_: What about work?_

**Nohbdy**_: I work nights. What about you? Are you going to bed after this? Do you have a 9-5 to get up for?_

**Emily**_: Never worked a 9-5 a day in my life._

**Nohbdy**_: Me either. _

**Emily**_: Going to bed after this._

**Nohbdy**_: Whose bed you going to? ;0_

**Emily**_: Are you normally this abrasive with people you've never met?_

**Nohbdy**_: Yeah, pretty much. I figure, I'm never goinna meet you, and if you're as frigid in real life as your name suggest, hopefully I have you squirming uncomfortably. _

**Emily**_: I could be a dude._

**Nohbdy**_: Nah, you can't. _

**Emily**_: Why not?_

**Nohbdy**_: Guys don't listen. I dunno…you could be. You could be Jake from State Farm, but in my head, you're gorgeous. _

**Emily**_: What do I look like?_

**Nohbdy**_: The most beautiful thing in the world: A cheesy beef burrito. _

**Emily**_: That's the most beautiful thing in the world?_

**Nohbdy**_: Didn't get a chance to eat yet, fkn starving, so yeah. What's LA like at this time of year?_

**Emily**_: Smoggy. _

**Nohbdy**_: Isn't LA like that all year?_

**Emily**_: In varying degrees. The joke is that the weather men have to find creative ways to say that the weather is the exact same today as it was yesterday. _

**Nohbdy**_: I thought about being a weather girl._

**Emily**_: Really?_

**Nohbdy**_: Yep. But then I found out you have to go to special school to learn how to read off of a green screen and that wasn't my deal. _

**Emily**_: Blonde or brunette?_

**Nohbdy**_: 34 C._

**Emily**_: What?_

**Nohbdy**_: I'm assuming you were trying to ask my preference. I notice tits first, 34C is like the perfect size for me. Give me that and it doesn't matter what their hair color is. You must like blondes._

**Emily**_: Brunettes. _

**Nohbdy**_: Black or brown. _

**Emily**_: Skin?_

**Nohbdy**_: Hair._

Honestly, Quinn hadn't shored up a preference, not as far as she could tell. She used to think that it was dark brown hair with light brown eyes, and perhaps a Jewish nose, but after one or two attempts at using Rachel look-alikes to replace Rachel, that had gone out the window. Since, Quinn had pretty much dated the whole spectrum. She had dated black, brown, blonde, red, and gray hair, and blue, green, hazel, brown, and gray eyes, all set in faces that had gone from the super pale to the super dark. Kwami, the black guy she had dated, was a student at USC and had come from Sierra Leone. His skin had been even darker than Djimon Hounsou.

Okay, maybe she hadn't dated the spectrum, but she had talked to the spectrum, had sex with a couple of people on the spectrum, too, but Quinn hadn't really dated anyone, not since Puck. Heath didn't count because he wasn't a boyfriend so much as a dedicated hook-up she sometimes cuddled with.

**Emily**_: Black. _

**Nohbdy**_: Doesn't matter much to me; a box of dye and you can be whatever color you want to be. Are you an ass or tits girl?_

**Emily**_: …_

**Nohbdy**_: Oh come on!_

**Emily**_: I prefer not to objectify the female body._

**Nohbdy**_: Bull shit! _

**Nohbdy**_: I can say bull shit, but I can't say c*nt? So what is it, Emsie? Ass or tits?_

**Emily**_: I have more of a preference for breasts, but I do like a nice bottom as well._

**Nohbdy**_: Bottom! Lol at you. I thought people were more loose out in Cali?_

**Emily**_: I'm not from here, and that may be true in LA and San Fran, maybe, but it's a lot more conservative out here than you think. _

**Nohbdy**_: I thought about moving out there once. _

**Emily**_: What stopped you?_

**Nohbdy**_: Everything. I ended up in New York instead. _

**Emily**_: You're from New York?_

**Nohbdy**_: No. Moved there after high school. Can't quite remember why._

**Emily**_: You don't like it?_

**Nohbdy**_: Not as much as I did when I first moved. _

**Emily**_: So why not leave?_

**Nohbdy**_: Not that simple._

**Emily**_: Where would you like to live?_

**Nohbdy**_: Dunno…everywhere. _

**Emily**_: That's a tall order._

**Nohbdy**_: I'm making it happen. _

"Frankie, you still here?" Tishawna looked at Quinn as if she had gained two heads.

"I got caught up with a user, and I wanted to make sure that it was recorded that I was here."

**Nohbdy**: _One stop at a time. _

Tishawna laughed. "Surely by now you know that you're presence is recorded when you log in, right?" She received a pat on the back. "Thanks for sticking with your caller." Tishawna, like most of them, referred to everybody as a 'caller' whether they were on the internet or on the phone. "That shows real dedication. I like to see that."

**Nohbdy**_: Do a lot of traveling?_

**Emily**_: Occasionally for my job. _

**Nohbdy**_: Me too. Been anywhere cool?_

**Emily**_: Johannesburg, Milan, Paris, Dublin. _

**Nohbdy**_: Haven't left country, yet, mostly just the states. And Mexico and Canada, not sure that counts. _

**Emily**_: Nope. _

**Nohbdy**_: Still working then._

Quinn floundered for something to say. Her eyes glanced at the time, and in synch she received another message from Nohbdy.

**Nohbdy**_: 6:13. Oh, well, I'm off to catch the sunrise. Thanks for hanging with me._

**Emily**_: No problem. _

_ …_

**Nohbdy**_: Can I talk to you again?_

**Emily**_: If you want to talk some other time…_

Quinn realized that the messages had come in at about the same time.

**Nohbdy**_: LOL_

**Emily**_: LOL_

She was happy that the faceless 'Nohbdy' wanted to talk to her again possibly as much as she wanted to talk to her.

**Emily**_: I'll be back on Sunday at 10:00 p.m., 1:00 p.m. your time._

Quinn hadn't spent too much time before now thinking about it, but she wondered if it meant anything that she chose church nights as her time to do her volunteer work. Had it been a coincidence?

**Nohbdy: **_How will I get you?_

Quinn sent a link to 'Nohbdy's' email address so that the next time Quinn was logged in, all 'Nohbdy' had to do was click on the link, and Quinn would instantly be on chat with her.

**Nohbdy**: _So night. Well…morning. Until next time…_

**Emily**: _Wait. What's your real name? _

…

**Emily**: _So I can put it in the record so your name doesn't read _Nohbdy_._

**Nohbdy**: _It's whatever you want it to be. Lates Gorgeous. Dream of me!_

[Session ended. 3:15 a.m.]

With a sense of loss, Quinn signed off of the chat session. She replaced her headset, and after a second of thinking about it, printed off a transcript of the conversation. She collected it off of the printer, stuffed it in her bag, and walked up the 20 steps, and then 26 more, out into the night.

The chat session had left her feeling off-kilter. That woman (if it was a woman), had been a veritable paradox, she was arrogant, yet self-conscious, flirtatious, yet reserved, funny, irritating, crass, and entertaining. She reminded Quinn of Santana, and that's what bothered her most of all because with the exception of fleeting moments when she heard a song that sounded like something Santana might listen to, or she saw a willowy dancer dancing behind the latest pop sensation, or Quinn found herself listening to gospel music, or even more, at a black church, or Rachel Berry flashed across her screen…she hadn't thought about any of the Glee kids in years. She hadn't talked, email, texted, or Facebooked any of them since she and Puck ended their year long relationship. She had no idea what was going on with them, and 360 days out of the year, she didn't want to know. They, like Yale, like Lima, like Beth, and the car accident, and the crazy, had all been wrapped into one nice, neat package, and had been buried in New Haven, just like Quinn Fabray had.

But for the first time in several years she found herself wondering about the life that she left behind: the Glee kids, where they were, what they were doing with themselves. She didn't care about all of them, or even most of them, really, her mind was only interested in one. Santana. There was something about 'Nohbdy' that made her think of her sometimes friend from high school. As she left the studio, and waited for her cab to take her back to Manhattan Beach, she caught herself wondering what had happened to her once kind of best friend.


	2. Rebecca

_**A/N 2: **I strongly recommend you listen to 'Rebecca' from So Weird, so you can get the kind of feel for the tone of this story._

* * *

"Fucking asshole," Santana hissed, wiping off the spilled drink. "Harvey, pass me a napkin?"

The bartender handed her a whole roll of paper towels.

"I'm sorry," the guy who had bumped her arm said. "How about I make it up to you by buying you your next drink?"

"How 'bout you watch where you're fucking going next time? This isn't a damned wet t-shirt contest."

"Snix," a voice she recognized as belonging to Grover hissed in her ear. Seconds later there was a hand on her waist. "This is Vance Pullman, with Altworld Records. Please tell me you were being your charming self."

Santana's face flushed in embarrassment, but she managed an impressive sneer. "Of course I was. I was just letting him buy me a drink."

"Forgive her, it's been a bad night."

Vance eyes twinkled as he stared in obvious appreciation of Santana. "I deal with musicians for a living. I know bad nights."

"Snix, Vance came out here to see us perform a set."

Santana cocked an interested brow. "I love Upsell Falls," Vance said. "I saw you when you played in Detroit and Chicago. I was in the area checking out some talent I got wind of, and I ended up seeing you guys perform. You've got a nice sound."

"Thank you," Grover said. The sound, the image, all of that was Grover and Reese, the lead singer and drummer. Santana was back-up vocals, but Grover made sure that they played at least one song that showcased Santana's vocals strongly every set. _Upsell Falls_, was a kind of hip-hop/ alternative fusion band with an underside R&B feel. It seemed to have serious appeal with college students and the hipster crowd. They had finally made it to the point where they were actually being requested, and their music played on the smaller radio stations.

After years, (and years) of limited success, they had just now gotten to the point where they had consistent work every weekend.

"We're pretty modest, but we've had some successes. We produced our own record in college called "Show Me", and sold a thousand copies over one weekend. I know that's not platinum sales, but for a college band, with no marketing resources, that's pretty good. Our YouTube videos get about a hundred thousand hits apiece; 'Friend of Mine', even hit a million."

She sounded like she was making a pitch, but she knew Grover and Reese wouldn't, so somebody had to. She wondered if that was why the band kept her (and kept her mostly happy): because she was good with the business side of things. She wondered this from time to time because the band could easily do well without her. (Maybe not easily, but Grover and Reese were the real crowd pleasers. She was just kind of there to look and sound pretty).

"That sounds like you guys are off to a good start. Listen, I'm just here to get a listen. Don't mind me. Although…the offer still on the table for that drink…"

Santana plastered a smile on her face, and allowed him to buy her a shot. She didn't like the guy, but she didn't really know how to turn down free liquor, either. Not if it got them signed with a record company.

Their break ended and they were back on stage. It was this moment that Santana lived for. Not the crowd, she didn't really need them; it was the stage that was her mistress. She could be up there alone, just as long as it was a raised platform, with the feel of the lights on her face, music playing around her, and her singing with everything that she had. It was the best high she had ever experienced. That it was something that gave joy to other people, that people enjoyed the thing that made her feel so happy, that was just a bonus.

As they performed, Santana went to her special place; in her head she was back in high school, dancing and singing with people that she'd refused to admit that she'd actually liked. From time to time Santana missed this part of McKinley High, and on her more vulnerable days, Santana caught herself looking over her shoulder to see if Brittany was dancing beside her.

Reese saw the expression in her eyes, nodded, and smiled at her like he understood. Grover danced around her, and Santana's flirtatious personality seeped out, keeping beat with the music that they were producing. The crowd's energy increased in sync with the band's energy. Santana, in turn, fed off of it and gave them more. It was such a rush. Every time she paused to wonder why she was putting herself through this slow form of torture, she remembered every time her feet hit the stage.

"Alright, last song of the night," Reese called, his Australian accent thoroughly pronounced. "Any requests?"

"Rebecca," was the call that came out the loudest.

Santana grimaced. She had first sung the song on stage because they hadn't prepared enough songs for the set, and they were one short and needed something to sing. Santana had been in a kind of mood prior to that, and it was her choice, so she sang that song. Apparently, the depth of emotion that Santana brought to the made for TV song, made it one that the crowd couldn't get enough of. 'Any request's or 'audience choice' became almost synonymous with 'Rebecca'.

Lou played her in, and she started in on those familiar lyrics. "_Rebecca moves across the world, she's a sirocco on the sand, she is the Nile that flows forever, cutting a wound across the land. She'll be your friend before you know her, she'll have your trust before it's earned, but like any nomad, she will wander, breaking the hearts of all concerned._"

The audience fell silent as she sang, mesmerized. Even her bandmates seemed to be at a loss even though they had heard this song so many times in the past. She only sang it on stage, it was the only time she allowed herself to even feel the words. Just like the song had complete control over her, she had complete control over the audience. She could feel it, see it in the way that eyes stayed fixed on her, taste it in the way mouths hung open, hardly daring to breathe for fear that the sound would obscure Santana's singing.

Santana dared a glance at the exec, who was watching the audience almost as raptly as he was watching her sing. Santana focused her eyes on a girl in the crowd. Blacked haired with nearly black eyes staring back at Santana. Santana focused all her energy on the words of the song, and the girl that was in the crowd, hoping to push out all extra thoughts. Santana finished the song, and gave her a briefly questioning look. The girl gave a slight nod.

The applause was immediate. It wasn't as boisterous as it was when they played an upbeat jam, it was more reverence; they were worshipping her with her applause. If she could, she would have stayed up on the stage forever, but the problem with heights, was that you had to eventually come back down, and Santana didn't do so well with her feet on the ground.

Vance handed Santana a business card as the band came off the stage. "Look, kids, I have to go, but I just wanted to let you know that you guys were great! Give me a call when you get the chance. We should talk."

Santana handed the card to Grover, giving Vance her best show smile. "So you enjoyed the performance?"

"Immensely. Don't wait too long."

Reese, Lou, Grover, and Stacks gave excited little squeals; Santana let her smile widen. "Hey, none of that fake sneer, Snix," Stacks challenged. "Let's get a real smile from you. This is epic. _Alt_world. We're on our way, guys. I told you, I told you we just had to keep pushing through. Whoa."

They crowded into the booth that had been reserved just for them, and placed orders with the waitress. Santana wandered over to the bar, preferring to order her drink straight from it. She requested a simple Jack & Coke. While she was waiting, she felt a presence near her arm, and without turning she knew it was the girl from the crowd.

"You guys were really good," the girl said, yelling to be heard over the music that had been turned on.

Santana kicked out the bar stool beside her, gesturing for the girl to sit. "Thanks."

"I'm Hannah!"

"Snix."

"I like that," Hannah said. Santana titled her head to the side and didn't respond to that. "You guys were great."

Santana looked her over. "You're not so bad yourself." Santana heard her name called. Without taking her eyes off the girl she said, "My mates are kind of being annoying, I guess we're celebrating. You hanging around?"

Last call was in a few minutes. She nodded. "Cool."

"Look at you picking up the Shiela," Reese cheered when Santana slid into the booth. "Sexy Snix always gets the ladies."

Santana laughed along with her band mates, even though Reese and Stacks were far more likely to take someone home than she was. Reese reminded her of an Australian Noah Puckerman, and Stacks…he was in a whole different realm.

They speculated about Vance, they talked about band rehearsals, new songs…the same things they talked about all the time. At last call, they broke apart. Grover to call his girlfriend and wish her a good night, Stacks to hit up an after club, and Reese and Lou back to the hotel, possibly to hook up. If it went sour, then Lou would eventually be replaced to save band drama; it'd already happened once, and no doubt it would happen again; just the nature of the beast.

Santana went looking for her girl, Hannah. She found her lounging at the bar, just waiting for Santana to go back and pick her up.

"Ready?" Santana questioned without any preamble. She extended a hand, and the girl didn't waste any time in taking it. Santana paused in the doorway. "You are over 18, right?"

Hannah laughed. "Of course! Would you like to see some ID?"

Hannah was joking, but Santana was not. "Yes, actually." She left Hannah standing where she was and asked something of the bouncer. He nodded, snickered, and handed her over the flash light. Hannah actually had her ID out and waiting for Santana. She ran the light over the ID. Satisfied, she returned the ID and the light, and led her around the back to where the recently acquired band bus was located.

"You want something to drink?" Santana questioned. She was already at the counter, fixing a shot. There was nothing in the mini-fridge to chase it down with, so Santana settled on water. She turned around to see Hannah looking around. "So this is your guys' bus?" she questioned.

Santana leaned back against the counter. "Oversized van, and yeah. This is our home. Bienvenidos."

"That means 'welcome', right?"

'Si."

Hannah grinned in amazement. "Do you speak Spanish fluently?"

Santana gave a nod. "Yep."

"You're…?"

"Mexican. You?" she questioned only because the girl had asked it of her. "Thai."

"I like Thai. Do you speak Thai?"

"No. I'm a Twinkie. Lived here my whole life. Say something in Spanish."

Santana eyes glanced over her in appreciation. "Bailes para mi."

Hannah giggled. "What does that mean?"

"Dance for me."

Hannah's expression was coy. "There's no music."

Barely moving, Santana switched on the speaker system. It was currently connected to her iPod, and Sade's _Kiss of Life_ filled the van. Santana pointed up. "Now there is."

Hannah walked toward Santana. "Are you going to dance with me?" she questioned. Santana hovered, indecisive, so Hannah covered more of the ground, swaying sensually with the music. There was absolutely no organization to Santana's iPod so literally any song could have started playing; it just worked out that the song worked so well for the situation.

When Hannah was only a few feet away, Santana covered the distance between the two of them. Hannah looked into her eyes, wetting her lips. Santana didn't hesitate. She pulled Hannah to her, kissing her fiercely. Just not on the lips. She attacked the girl's jaw and neck. Hannah offered her more access while at the same time trying to capture her lips.

"You were so amazing," Hannah panted.

Santana lifted her lips from the girl's neck. "Just shut up, and fuck me," she hissed. There was a moment where the girl had that familiar look of disappointment, but it was quickly gone. Santana knew that look well. It was the look of a girl who thought that her stage crush was a deep and complexly intimate person, only to realize that they only wanted that one thing. _Sorry_, Santana wanted to tell her. _You're not going to meet your soul mate like this_. Damn it. Santana stopped in her ministrations, and pulled away.

This, this was what was wrong with high's. Afterwards you came crashing down so far, and Santana couldn't quite figure out how to counteract that feeling of loss. Sometimes girls worked, but it always seemed like she was just off with everyone she met. The times she wanted to talk, she ended up picking a 'shiela' who simply wanted to have that distinction of sleeping with a musician, and the times she wanted to have cold, meaningless sex, she seemed to find the girls who wanted to talk. To get to know her. The ones who believed that they wanted to be with her more intimately, because she was a pretty face, and she could sing really well, and they thought that that was all that mattered in life.

Hannah frowned at the loss of contact. "Did I do something wrong?" Hannah questioned.

Santana shook her head. "No, sweets, I just realized how much that performance took it out on me."

"Who's Rebecca?" Hannah questioned abruptly. Santana rolled her eyes. _Seriously_.

"It's just a song."

"You wouldn't sing it the way you do if you didn't connect to it."

Santana laughed awkwardly; the last thing she wanted to think about were the words of that song.

"It's just a song," Santana repeated. She gestured. "Sorry about this. I'm not feeling very energetic at the moment."

"You want me to hang with you? I mean cause if you want to just hang, I'm cool with that?"

"Hey, some other time angel, yeah? It's late, I'm kind of thinking I should get to bed."

Santana couldn't say when the girl had looked more disappointed, when Santana told her to fuck her, or just now.

"Umm…yeah, okay."

Santana didn't actually offer her number, and Hannah, realizing that she'd been dismissed, was too prideful to actually ask for it. Santana watched her out, locking the door behind her after she was gone. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" Santana demanded.

She started to pour herself another shot, thought _fuck it_, and just grabbed the whole bottle instead. She found Stacks laptop from its spot underneath the seat. Stacks was far more trusting than anyone in this world had any right to be. The password for his laptop was simply 'o-p-e-n', and he let everyone use it. Santana took another shot, and logged onto Facebook and Twitter. She updated the bands page with a few pictures from the night, and tweeted from the official Upsell Falls account, before she switched to her own. She added a few new friends, looked up status updates, tweeted something about tonight's concert, and pretended that she wasn't on Facebook for one purpose.

She checked Brittany's page. Her best friend, and sometimes lover, usually only updated her profile once a week on Sunday nights at 4:00, no matter where she was. Tonight though, she must have sensed Santana's mood, because she updated it with a picture of her, Brittany, and Quinn, all wearing their Cheerios outfits. Santana and Quinn both had black braces on their wrists. Santana read the caption beneath the photo. _Santana Lopez remember the back hand spring tuck incident? Happy #ThrowbackThursday. _

Santana's hand hovered, but she moved the mouse to click on the name of the other blonde in the picture. She was directed from Brittany's page to Quinn's not really knowing why she was here. Most of the time when she got the itch to look on Quinn's page, it was enough just to type Q-U in the search bar and see that tiny thumbnail picture come up, but once or twice a year she got the urge for more. The urge to sift her profile, to look through all of her pictures, to read her wall posts, her notes, her likes. She wasn't quite sure why. It wasn't really to glean information; she knew mostly all of her information personally. She had been there for those moments.

Santana headed for the pictures, and she figured this wasn't stalking because a shocking amount of the pictures were of her and Santana. Then there were a handful of Rachel and Quinn, and then the Yale photos. In just about each one of those, her eyes were bright, mega-watt smile stretched across her lips. An aurora of happiness seemed to surround her, contentment bleeding into the pictures that all seemed to be taken candidly (and were all tagged by other people besides Quinn). In her Yale photos she seemed so carefree and happy, distinguished yet approachable. It was all fake, Santana knew, but no one else had. Santana lost track of how people claimed that they and Quinn were BFFs.

In the pictures with Puck, Quinn looked different. She had a different smile, she seemed happy, but each photo had looked like a premonition of their impending break up. Puck wasn't smart, he wasn't cultured, he came from a broken home, and wasn't Christian; all damning things, but things that had nothing to do with their break up. His real fault was that he made Quinn want less; he made Quinn happy, and that was the one cardinal sin of Quinn Fabray's life.

The last ever status update that had come from Quinn was the notice that she and Puck were no longer in a relationship. The update was dated a month after Santana knew their relationship to have ended, and since it was Quinn's last, it almost suggested that the break up was the cause of her giving up her current social media life and dashing off into the wild blue. It was plausible, but Santana didn't buy it. She thought the status update before the break up one was far more telling. It was an obituary that Quinn had posted, and apparently written, about herself. It was supposedly something her psychology professor had made the class do as a writing assignment, (it was one of those get to know thy self-things). Maybe she had gotten to know herself, and that's why she disappeared, or maybe she just got tired of pretending.

Whatever it was, those two items were Quinn's parting words: a relationship status change and an obituary written by one Lucy Quinn Fabray. The obit had an ominous date of death that put Quinn at being 31 (months later it changed to reflect that she lived until she was 80, and the word 'tragically' was removed, though the obit had remained as somber as it was originally). If not for Quinn having protested so vehemently against Karofsky's suicide attempt, it might lead one to believe that Quinn had said good-bye to the world; especially since no one had seen her, or heard from her, after that moment.

Quinn had simply dropped off the face of the Earth as far as anyone could tell. No one knew anything else after that. She didn't talk to Rachel, or Mercedes, or Brittany, or Tina, and certainly not Santana. Not even Judy could say what had happened to her. Google was silent about her whereabouts; she was just gone, like Rebecca.

Santana was loathe to admit it, but the fact that she hadn't even gotten a proper good-bye chafed her. She and Quinn had an odd sort of relationship. They weren't always friends; sometimes the best that could be said about their relationship was that they weren't enemies. At a vulnerable moment they had ended up in bed with each other, and the experience hadn't been terrible, but it apparently didn't bear a repeat, because the two talked about as much after that, as they did before, which was very rarely.

As she did whenever she found herself weak enough to cyber stalk Quinn, she berated herself for caring about a girl that had apparently never really cared about her. Santana really understood the appeal of starting over, she did. In a way she had done the same. She couldn't honestly say that she was still friends with her fellow Gleeks. She talked to Brittany because Brittany would always be a presence in her life. There was no navigating around that, no matter how much Santana tried. And she talked to Kurt, who she thought of as her little brother. But Puck, Tike, the Newbies, Matt, Lauren, Mercedes, Rachel? She talked to Rachel only when Rachel tried to pretend that they were the family she tried to mold them into in high school.

Despite giving lip service to the contrary, as soon as Rachel ran off to do that TV show in LA she disappeared. The show _Roses and Thorns_, a concept piece that seriously looked like it was rehashing the Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray saga on screen, lasted only half a season. After that it was just commercials, and guest roles, but then there was a recurring character, and then Fox wanted to try again. She was on another show, now, and since her life was on the upswing, her contact was limited. Santana noticed that pattern; when Rachel was low, when things weren't going right for her, that's when she started talking about the Glee family this, and the Glee family that. Sometimes Santana stepped in and offered her her expertise, only to have it forgotten by Rachel as soon as she was back on the upswing. Then Santana was just back to being that jealous girl from high school.

Santana honest to goodness wasn't jealous of Rachel. She wasn't famous, but after years, (and years) of limited success, they had just now gotten to the point where they had consistent work every weekend, and even though she was technically homeless, she was now bringing home somewhere between $1,500 to $3,000 a week on average. She was making a living off of music, which was half-way to living out her dream. She wasn't' famous yet, but she had over 4,000 Facebook friends, triple that for followers on Twitter, and she got recognized sometimes, even if it was mostly just in New York. No one knew this, though, and Santana didn't tell them; she left them to their own imaginations to figure out what she was doing. She wasn't where Rachel was, but she wasn't jealous, either.

During those few times they talked, Rachel never seemed happy to her. She hated Los Angeles, but was too stubborn to admit that her hasty move to the West Coast was a mistake. She hated television and missed Broadway, but she had slammed that door shut soundly and it wasn't going to open back up again. She was jealous that Mercedes, so far, had turned out to be the most successful of them, because while Mercedes only had spotty success in America, once she went overseas they just ate her up. Her last three albums had all gone certified Platinum. Because Rachel was drawn to success she had attempted to 'rekindle' a friendship that had always only been spotty at best, but Mercedes wasn't interested, and for that Rachel considered Mercedes to have turned her back on her family.

Santana didn't blame Mercedes, or Quinn, or any of them for falling off. She had never really felt that same sense of comradery from her former teammates that the others did; she didn't feel like they would have her back if something major went down. Shortly after Rachel had moved to LA, Santana had the realization that her fellow Glee clubbers would always see her as that girl who tormented them in high school and nothing would change that. Even worse, she always seemed to fall back into being that girl, and Santana really didn't like that. So she gradually fell out of touch with the majority of them, and was unsurprised to discover that that was pretty much the case across the board.

So she didn't blame Quinn for wanting to reinvent herself, or to go away, or even have the desire to not be friends with anyone that knew about her past. She guessed that the thing that had bothered her was that Santana had never really thought of herself as being Quinn's past.

* * *

Santana blinked at the sight of the sun shining in her eyes and a noise that sounded a lot like someone trying to break in. The door opened a few seconds later, and Stacks stepped into the vehicle. He headed to the Keurig, but paused when he felt Santana's eyes on him. "Man, you sleep in here, Snix?"

Santana looked around orienting herself to the world. She gave a morning smile. "Yea, guess so."

Stacks got a hang dog look on his face. It was lucky that he was so pretty. "She wore you out so much that you didn't feel like crashing at the hotel?"

Santana rubbed her face. She was regretting passing out, now, because she wanted a nice, hot shower, but she definitely didn't feel up to schlepping it across town to take one. "No, I sent her packing before we could get into anything. I was too drunk to drive the Mini so I decided to just curl up here." They'd all spent at least one unaccompanied night in the beast so Stacks understood. "What time is it?"

"7:00."

11:48 was usually Santana's first attempt at getting up before noon. There wasn't much point to getting up that early, or worse, earlier. Unless they had an early gig, everyone else got up around 2:00 when they were on the road. "What're you doing up so freaking early?"

He grinned, handing her a fresh cup of coffee. "Not up; I haven't gone to bed yet."

Santana yawned, eyeing the cup. Santana wasn't really a coffee drinker, and if she drank the cup now, she was practically saying that she was going to be up for the day.

Santana's indecision was interrupted by Stacks' voice. "Oh, she's a hottie. What's her name?"

"Who?"

Stacks gestured to his computer screen. It had been hibernating but when Santana shifted it must have woke the thing up. Santana marveled that he didn't seem in the least concerned that she was using his stuff, when Santana would have nearly chewed off the guy's head for the same thing.

"Oh, her name's Quinn. She's…an old friend of mine."

"Sounds like you banged her." Stacks got closer, because Stacks liked pretty face. "She looks familiar," he said. For a few seconds he concentrated on trying to figure out why, but then he shrugged. He'd probably seen some picture of her and Quinn together at some point. "I'm just going to get some winks here, cause Jamie wants to leave by noon, and I'm not committing to sleep if I got to wake up in a few hours."

Stacks stretched out on the other bench. "Hey, be a sweetheart, and when you go to the hotel, grab my stuff will you? Thanks," he said without waiting for Santana to answer. He closed his eyes and was knocked out seconds later.

Santana pulled his laptop to her. She gave Quinn's hazel-eyed gaze one last look. Her mouse hovered over the friends checked box. She pulled up the scroll down bar. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, she scrolled down, and clicked on the unfriend button. There, no more trolling. Let Quinn stay where Quinn wanted to. Santana was tired of spending any amount of her time on the past.

Seconds later she got a notification. She had a new message.

_Speaking of the Devil_, she said, staring at the name of the sender in cold surprise. It looked like the past just didn't want to stay buried.


	3. Busy Work

An hour and ten minutes before the sun would break through the layer of fog that permanently surrounded the city, there was a brief knock before the front door was opened, and Mel Simple strode into the house as if he owned the place. He sighed at the sight of the girl outstretched on the couch, looking as if she had just barely made it onto it. He nudged her, praying to her god that she wasn't hung over.

"Frankie, come on sweetie, night time is over, time to rise and shine!"

Quinn grunted, rolling into the couch and away from the voice. "Ten more minutes," she grunted, trying her best to keep a hold of the dream that she'd been having.

"Up, up, up! It's a new day!"

"Go the fuck away!" she hissed.

Quinn felt herself crashing to the floor. Her eyes were open in a flash, and she was on her feet crawling. "What the hell?!" she shrieked.

"Up now means up now."

"You sound like my mother."

"Don't make me get the water, Frankie!"

"Are you trying to get fired?"

"Oh, please! There's no one alive who would do this job for the salary I take for it." Mel turned up his nose at her. "I'm impressed that you made it to the couch this time. Kudos on not passing out on the floor!"

"Fuck you. That was once." Or twice. The floor was sometimes very comfy. "I want my key back!"

"Um…no. See, as much _fun_ as this job is, I actually want to keep it, and I can't keep it if you don't work, and you won't work if you don't get your cute little ass up off of that couch, because we've got a full day today, and it started…oh, about an hour ago. So get up."

"I don't want to," Quinn said petulantly.

"Well, that's just too bad."

Quinn sighed, she didn't like being strong armed. "10 more minutes, and I'm all yours."

"No, you lost 10 more minutes 6 months ago. I don't think you have grasped the concept of a punishment, darling," he condescend. "You acted like a child, and you're being punished like a child. You're not supposed to like it."

Quinn highly doubted that children drove cars. Or drank. She seemed to recall from her high school days that it was highly frowned upon when little human under the age of 21 were drinking. At least in this country. "I don't see what the big deal is! Everyone drinks."

"Yes, but not everyone gets behind the wheel and almost hits a child."

"Oh, can we get over that already? I _feel _absolutely terrible about that, but am I supposed to just beat myself up about it every second of the day? And she wasn't a child! 18 is legally an adult in every state but Alabama, 14 if they commit a crime. Let it go!"

"Unfortunately, I can't because I'm busy doing my best to get everybody else in this country forgetting about that."

Quinn doubted that because everybody in the country didn't know who she was. "The kid pulled out in front of me! I wasn't even at fault!"

"Yes, but you _were_ drinking."

"Minor detail."

"Not when you have the damn can in your hand! _Why_ didn't you just call a fucking taxi? Why didn't you call _me_? Or that playboy of yours? What's the point of having him if you can't count on him to pick you up when you're plastered?"

"I wasn't plastered!"

"Honey, you were the poster girl for it."

"Okay, enough," Quinn snapped. "Look, I get it, Frankie fucked up. But let's get this straight, pittance or not, I do still pay you, so keep your snark to a minimum. I only allow you so much."

"Fine," Mel snapped with just as much attitude as Quinn. Day in and day out it amazed her that this guy wasn't gay. Actually, if she was being honest, it was half the reason why she kept him around. The other half was that he _did _work for considerably less (but then she wasn't considerably more) so it evened out. Quinn hadn't gotten to the point where she needed a personal assistant…well, Quinn hadn't really gotten to the point where she could actually _afford _a personal assistant, but he was a necessary expense. Also, and she hated to admit this, it was good to have someone who constantly looked out for her. She couldn't just disappear.

Quinn headed for the kitchen. "No, no kitchen. Upstairs, shower. Dress and wet hair, you know the drill."

Quinn actually screamed and stomped her feet, but still marched up the stairs to her bathroom. She came back down 15 minutes later with towel-dried hair, and wearing a light weight thermal and a pair of gray sweats, turned down at the waist. She missed her Cheerios workout clothes, but she had left them behind in a trashcan before she left Yale. Mel was in the kitchen, making a quick breakfast. Quinn descended on the cup of coffee that was warming in front of her, only grimacing slightly at it. _Black_.

Mel turned around with a plate in his hand, looking Quinn up and down. "Frankie, maybe just _consider _going back to blonde. You looked so gorgeous in that Sam Smith video. Have you read the comments about it? They like you more than Sam."

"For the last time, Mel, I'm _not _going back to blonde."

_Back to Black _queued in her mind, which of course made her think of Santana, and she kind of sneered because Santana's dress on top of a dress combination hadn't been one of the girl's best.

"Just think of the roles that would just come flying at you. The world loves blondes, and you, you look absolutely breathtaking as one."

Quinn just walked out of the room instead of repeating herself. Since Quinn had walked out the door, Mel followed after her, locking up behind him as he left. Quinn slid into the passenger seat of Mel's Tribute, pulling down her sunglasses, and doing her best to curl up on the seat. _Bring on the day_, she mumbled into her coffee cup.

It was one of those days where there didn't seem to be enough time. They raced from one location to the next, but despite the bustle, the whole day seemed to go as slowly as possible. It was like time stopped and everyone was walking in slow motion. Before the sun was even up, she was sitting in a make-up chair being made to look like a rag doll. "I don't know why you're bothering," Quinn muttered petulantly, "We all know I'll be photo shopped and airbrushed over later."

"Yes, but this gives us less to have to correct," she was told.

Quinn eyed the pock marks hiding beneath the make up the woman was wearing, as well as the semi-crooked teeth and thought it was rich of her having the nerve to say anything about Quinn's imperfections. Her lips straightened into a line, and she breathed out through her nose to prevent herself from rolling her eyes.

Quinn tried to set her mind right for the day. Despite what the faceless strangers on message boards said about actors and actresses not doing much work, a photo shoot was a lot more than just standing around looking pretty. You weren't just taking a picture, you were acting for the camera. You were twisting your body in ways you would never naturally twist them in order to make your neck look longer, your waist to look thinner, your lips to look fuller. Unless you'd sat before a camera, you couldn't imagine how much effort it took to make yourself look effortless. You were holding your body above the ground in a way that didn't quite feel good, or you were standing in one spot until your feet ached, and you couldn't even so much as sneeze unless you wanted to do it again. (And after doing a shot a hundred times who in their right mind would want to do it again)? Every time you had a costume change, the lighting had to be adjusted, accessories exchanged, backgrounds reset. It wasn't like when you took pictures with your friends and only cared whether everyone was smiling.

Quinn for the life of her couldn't remember what the hell she was modeling, or posing for, and really, what did it matter? She thought about her modeling and acting gigs in terms of things. This photo shoot would pay for the repairs on her car, that music video would pay her court ordered fees, this minor $8,000 8-day guest shoot, would pay part of Mel's salary for the week, and everything chipped away at the 2 years' worth of student loan debt (and interest) she accrued while at Yale. Because she measured her time in the pay that she got from it, she actually enjoyed doing volunteer work because it was one of the few times in her day to day when people _couldn't _pay for her time.

She had an interview for a magazine right after the photo shoot, which meant that while the photographer was busy trying to get the perfect final picture, the journalist (and the term was used loosely), was doing his best to stay out of the photographer's way and was snapping questions at her in between scenes. She had been prepped for this interview, like just about every one she did. 90% of the interviews she did were exactly alike, and the answers were utter bullshit.

"What was going through your mind when you were doing the shoot?"

_ How much my fucking feet hurt, and how I want to go home, and how I really, really could use some alcohol right now. But not liquor because it's not yet noon, and I'm _not_ an alcoholic._

"I was thinking about how great it was to work with Sata Valjean. I've been an admirer of his work for ages." Blush. Giggle.

That wasn't a lie. Quinn was familiar with Sata's work, had followed him since she was about 13 years old, but was unimpressed that the once NatGeo rising star recipient was now photographing the likes of people like her.

"What's the process like?"

_Like being a dirty minded adult's blow up doll that he can contort anyway he wants for the sake of 'art'. _

"It's really easy. This is like a little girl's best dream: I get to get dressed up, and look really pretty! Seriously, though, I enjoy every minute of it, and I'm just lucky I get to work with such professionals."

And then there were the flat out stupid questions, the 'boxer or brief' type questions in alternate variations, but thankfully this one was just about the shoot. It was just for the inside of the magazine. It was just a few blurbs, but that didn't take the interview from taking over an hour to conduct.

At the end the journalist shook Quinn's hand. "It's always a pleasure getting a chance to talk to you, Francesca."

"Thank you, Alton," I look forward to seeing you in the future."

Quinn always applauded herself whenever she remembered someone's name. It wasn't until she quit out on school that she finally learned how to compartmentalize names and faces so she could go back and pick up someone when she needed to, and thus seem interested in them.

After the shoot in Pasadena it was across town to Seal Beach to film a commercial for a product that Quinn forgot as soon as they were done with it five and a half hours later, she was interviewed again in the space of time that she was doing the commercial, and following immediately after she had another photo shoot, this one the kind that her agent, Angelika Dinkmeier liked.

The first one had flirted with the lines of sophistication and sexiness, the kind where some skin was showing in a completely tasteful way; the second photo shoot was the absolute epitome of a wasp depiction. She was getting roles more along the lines of simple stated elegance ever since the Sam Smith video. Before that she had more risqué shoots, which could be fun (especially the tastefully naughty librarian one she did) sometimes, but she actually preferred keeping as many clothes on as possible for her shoots because she hated the way the photographers leered at her made her uncomfortable. So far she hadn't shown _much,_ just enough, enough to make her parents cringe but, not enough to be able to spank to, unless you didn't need much material to get off.

The day had been so busy, that there had been no time to eat, which saved Quinn the expediency of pretending that she wasn't actually hungry. She wasn't anorexic, at least in her mind she wasn't, she just didn't eat consistently. She only hit 2000 calories (in food) on the days that she spent hours working out, but most days she consumed at least 1000 calories, or tried to. When she was doing cheerleading, she had no problem keeping her figure so slim because of the two a day Cheerios practices, the jogging, and the dancing for Glee. She wasn't half as physically active now, so she had to make sacrifices somewhere; rarely was there enough time in the day for her to get in a several hours work out so the sacrifice came in what she consumed.

At close to 10 that night, when she was sitting in a studio chair at the radio station, waiting to be interviewed (her last engagement of the day), Mel placed a high fiber pita in her hand, as well as a nutrient shake. Quinn gave no complaint, eating slowly as she waited. This was her last thing for the day, and relatively harmless. It was an interview for a fundraiser for her charity, a foundation that she was a part of by virtue of Angelika slapping a list in front of her, and her finger falling down on this one. She was surprised when she lifted her finger and saw her new charity of choice was Habitat for Humanity, but she wasn't disappointed. She liked working with Habitat. She even helped out on builds when she had space in the schedule to do so.

She left the radio station in a really good mood, only to return back to her empty house. Her small, 1,100 sq. ft. two story detached house had a very quiet elegance to it, midway between modern and classical. Judy would probably complain endlessly about her choice in furnishings, but Quinn didn't care. Judy was never likely to see it, and Quinn was tired of worrying about what anyone else thought. She was living her life, her way. Lucy was who she'd been born to be, Quinn was who she thought the world wanted her to be. Frankie was something in between the two women; she was who Lucy and Quinn both wanted to be. Approachable, confident, in charge, lovely, friendly, and engaging.

Frankie wanted black, blue, and gold in her bedroom set, so she had it and ignored the voice of her mother saying that black was too dark a color to be in a bedroom (Quinn sometimes wondered if she wasn't just talking about the color). Frankie liked to go to antique shops, and thrift shops, and she liked to bring up unique items and craft them to work into her environment. Her single most favorite item that she had was an old, rescued green upright piano that she'd gotten at a thrift store for $54.00 after three days working six hours each day. It was out of tune and in need of repairs. The wheels stuck, it needed to be thoroughly cleaned, Quinn was sure there was a dead body or two hidden inside, it had nicks in it, in short it was absolutely perfect. She named it Musetta the Green Lean Mean Music Making Machine, and restoring it became a favorite pass time of hers. It had a calming effect on her.

She sat down at Musetta and let her fingers rest against her keys. Quinn hated living alone. At Yale she had loved her roommate for the one simple fact that she kept Quinn from being alone. Her roommate had been a girl named Fabian; she was a light skinned, black girl, who was even farther from home, but didn't seem to mind too much. She had been a cheerleader, too, and sang in the choir (school, not church, she was a deist). She was the kind of girl who had a word a day calendar, who did crosswords and Sudoku, who sang along with television jingles when Quinn watched TV, but didn't actually watch television by herself. She had one of those cheerful personalities that Quinn thought she would find annoying, like Brittany's, but oddly she didn't.

She liked Fabian, very much. Fabian had only been to New Haven once prior to her freshman year, so she knew nothing and no one, but unlike Quinn who wanted to hide away, she wanted to explore. Week days caught her buried in the books, or with her study groups, but on the weekends, she wanted to go everywhere, and she dragged Quinn along. It was because of Fabian that she ended up in her secret sorority, and had ended up as 'besties' with half of the people she knew at Yale. They had all been classmates, study buddies, or were a part of the same student organizations that Fabian was a member of, though she admitted to only being casual associates with the vast majority of them. Quinn wondered why that was until one of her sorority sisters flat out asked Quinn why she hung out with Fabian so much, which caused Quinn to remember how she had originally illogically been uncomfortable about she and Fabian rooming together when they were first introduced.

It wasn't until after they slept together that Quinn even discovered that she had been Fabian's first.

It took Quinn a minute to realize that she was playing; that her fingers had started moving without her meaning to. Two instruments reminded Quinn of the feel of a woman; the cello was one of them, the piano the other, for two separate reasons. Once she realized and accepted that she liked girls as well as guys (though admittedly she liked being with women more), she wondered if she had stuck with the piano, even though she was not very good at it, for that reason alone. Because the way her fingers stroked against the (faux) ivory reminded her of other strokes.

Quinn's fingers moved, of their own accord, as did her thoughts, shifting to the place she was trying not to let it go.

_ "You're dating Finn?" Quinn hid behind the open door of her locker. She took her time exchanging out her books. "Finn?" was repeated. "Hudson?"_

_ Quinn finally worked up the courage to glance around the locker door. She nodded._

_ "Why didn't you tell me?"_

_ "Because I knew you wouldn't like it."_

_ "How long?"_

_ Quinn felt kind of sick. She wanted to just go away. No, she didn't feel sick, she felt guilty, and rightly so. _

_ "A few weeks now."_

_ "And were you ever going to tell _me?_ I had to find out from Jacob!"_

_ "I'm sorry," Quinn said regretfully. And she was. She was sorry that she was dating Finn, she was sorry that she didn't have the courage to tell her, she was sorry that she'd found out from Jacob, but she wasn't going to do anything about it. She couldn't. _

_Their voices were lowered to practically a whisper. "What about _us?"

_ "There isn't an 'us'!" Quinn's voice dropped even lower. "There can't be an 'us'. It's all good for you, you have two gay dads. They'd probably throw you a rainbow coming out party; my parents would throw me out. They would cut me off. You don't have a reputation to worry about, I do."_

_ Quinn's voice and expression softened at the facial expression of the girl in front of her. "Things will be different, once we graduate, I promise." It was a lie and they both knew it. After graduation, there was another four more years of being her daddy's perfect little girl if she expected him to pay for her college. "Then there can be an us. Until then, I'm dating Finn Hudson."_

_ Quinn saw approaching footsteps, and she slammed her locker shut, her face disappearing behind a hard mask. Her tone of voice changed as well. "Okay, listen, Treasure Trail. Just because we're working on an assignment for English, doesn't mean you get to come chasing after me in the hall. Get lost!"_

_ Quinn felt like a world class bitch as Rachel took off. Santana leaned against Quinn's neighbor's locker, Brittany beside her. "Harsh, Fabray," Santana remarked. "Why're you always so mean to that girl? I mean, yeah she's lame, but she's kind of cute,"_

_ "She's not fucking cute, she's a troll!"_

_ "Brittany likes her," _

_ "She's really fun, Q," Brittany interjected. "She sings really pretty, too."_

_ "And she's got an amazing pair of legs." _

_ Quinn scowled. "Are you trying to date her, Santana? Your queer's showing, you might want to cover that up."_

_ Santana flushed, but her lips tightened. "My queer, Q? Me and Britts macking at parties every now and then doesn't make me queer. It makes me irresistible. You would know since I see you checking me out at cheer practice, though I can't blame you. I _am_ the hottest bitch up in this place."_

_ Quinn blushed bright red. "Eww…you wish. Like I would check you out! What you and Brittany do, that's not my business, but if you don't want everyone thinking you're as queer as Black Berry and Hidden Berry, than I wouldn't go around saying that I think queer junior and her fugly grandma sweaters is cute. Now if you'll excuse me, it seems like someone here's forgetting her place, and could stand to use a reminder. Do you need one as well?"_

_ Santana chewed down on her lip, but she defiantly turned to Britt. "Remember when she _used_ to be fun? Q, do the world a favor and just get laid already."_

_ They pushed away from the lockers leaving Quinn behind. Quinn ground down on her teeth because ever since Brittany, Santana was always leaving her behind. It was like she was the third wheel even though she was the one that was in charge. Quinn felt eyes on her, and she turned in time to see a pair of wide brown eyes disappearing around the corner. _

Quinn knew people. People who had nice, well-adjusted childhoods, or people who had crappy high school experiences, and they didn't keep them around. They didn't haunt them. They didn't relive every moment or, like Quinn, didn't drown them in alcohol. Or would have, if there was any in her house, but no. Mel had gone through the entire house, alcoholic-aware style, looking for package bottles everywhere, in every closet, in every drawer, in the light fixtures; as if Quinn was an alcoholic. She might enjoy a drink or two, but she wasn't that.

She knew, too, that she could just go to the closest liquor store and pick one up, but she didn't want to move from where she was right now, and no body that was on her speed dial would bring her alcohol or knew that she didn't have a problem. The DUI and reckless driving, that was pretty well hushed up. She just didn't want to have to explain to someone why she wanted them to bring her booze.

Her hands pressed down against keys, tunelessly playing, until a sudden thought occurred to her. Mel had gone through the entire house, but…Quinn stood up, carefully moving the bench backwards. Her heart racing, she carefully pulled the piano away from the wall, and there, safely hidden away from Mel's scourge was a bottle of a golden amber-colored liquid that looked a lot like salvation.

Quinn smiled at her oldest friend, and lifted it up off of the ground, pushing the piano back into place before she carried the bottle over to the couch. Her mouth watered at the thought of drinking it, and her hand independently moved to twist off the cap, but she didn't open it.

Quinn lay there holding the bottle of liquid in her hand, listening to it swish every time she moved even slightly, so that every time she inhaled, there was that sound beckoning to her. Usually when Quinn felt this lonely, that was when she started dating someone new. She currently had a dedicated fuck buddy. Heath. If she called him up, he'd probably be over in 20 minutes. But she didn't want to fuck, she wanted actual companionship. She had associates out here that she would call friends to appease them, and there were people that she genuinely liked, but she had yet to just mesh seamlessly with anyone. Quinn had never quite been good at friendships.

She was lonely enough to contemplate making a phone call. It was the call to the one person in the world that she knew would always pick up the phone. That she knew if she said 'come', would fly across the country, moaning and groaning the whole time, and would bitch her out when she got there, and possibly even slap her, but would still come. It was the one thing that Quinn knew to the depths of her soul; she didn't doubt it. She knew that even though she had left them, without even so much of a good-bye that they would still be there for her because it was the only person from her past life she even kept the slightest bit of contact with; correction, it was the only person that she actually bothered to alert to the fact that she was still alive.

She opened her Facebook page up. It had remained unchanged for six years, depicting a girl that quite frankly didn't even still exist anymore. Quinn at Yale was no different really than Quinn at McKinley, except an older version of her high school self. With the slightest nudge from Fabian, she had found it remarkably easy to fit in at Yale. It was a school that was looking exactly for her type. She didn't have a trust fund, and she didn't come from old family, either, but she fit the look. She had that old world grace that everyone pretended they didn't want, but soaked up as if beauty itself actually made good company.

Quinn typed out Santana's name, unsurprised to find out that they were no longer friends. At the sight of the add friend button, however, Quinn was back to wondering what was going on in Santana's life. She never looked. She didn't search through any of her photos, she didn't read anything on her wall; she bypassed all the alerts. It wasn't will power so much as the fact that Santana had put Quinn on a block list so she _couldn't _see any of it. Quinn knew that she was on a block list because Santana updated her Facebook constantly, and yet Quinn never got any notice of anything, not even a reminder that it was Santana's birthday.

Quinn opened the message browser, her fingers resting on top of the keyboard for 20 minutes before she actually composed a message. _Santana. I talked to a girl a few days ago who reminded me of you. Would you hate me if I said that I don't think of you all that often? That it's been more than a year? I don't really want to know how you're doing right now, either, I just want you to be okay. What's wrong? Do you remember when people used to say 'it gets better'? Has it gotten better yet? For me either. _

She didn't send it. She never did. Instead she re-added Santana as a friend. It was a dance they did. It was the only form of 'communication' that they had had in the past six years. Every so often Santana would unfriend her, (Quinn imaged when Santana was feeling down), or Quinn would unfriend her, (she _knew_ it was when _she_ was feeling down), and once discovered they would re-add each other, and the other always accepted the friend request. That was it. Quinn wasn't quite sure why she kept up this minor correspondence, but she felt that after all they had gone through together, she deserved at least that.

She only had a few minutes wait before Santana accepted the request, which piqued Quinn's interest because what was Santana doing up this late? It was now midnight here, which made it 3:00 in the morning in New York. On a Saturday night. The sudden urge to talk to Santana was about as strong as the one to drink the contents of the bottle still sitting on her chest. _Aren't we too old to still be spending the night partying? _she wondered, trying to will the words 3,000 miles away to Santana. A part of Quinn believed that Santana actually heard her thoughts the same way she believed that Santana actually got the messages she never sent.

It was none of her business, she had no right to know, but she wondered if Santana stayed up this late every night, or every weekend. She wondered if she took home random girls, or if she figured out how to have a relationship with someone that wasn't Brittany. She wanted to know if she had ever gone back to college, if she graduated, if she was happy. If she still talked to Rachel…

Quinn sighed, standing up unsteadily. She stumbled her way into the kitchen to pour the alcohol down the drain. She herself was drained. It had been a long day, and she just wanted to crash on the couch. There really was nothing stopping her from doing just that. Tomorrow was Sunday. All she had on her schedule was church, which Mel wouldn't wake up for, a short afternoon photo shoot, and her community service. She could fall asleep on her couch again without risk of discovery, but she forced herself upstairs to her room, feeling it was more civilized. She pulled herself beneath the covers, remembering that there was something special about Sunday, something to look forward to, but she couldn't really remember what it was.

And then she remembered: _I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you Nobody too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! They'd advertise, you know! How dreary, to be, Somebody! How public like a Frog, to tell one's name, the livelong June, to an admiring bog!_

* * *

**A/N: Final poem is _I am Nobody_ by Emily Dickinson. **


	4. It All Adds Up

Today started at 2236. Quinn counted in her head as she descended. 2236, 2237, 2238, 2239, stopping at 2262 when she hit the bottom step. Numbers fascinated Quinn, each one added up to something even if it took a little time to do so. Her whole life was governed by numbers and coincidences. She had 234 more steps to go before she was done with this room, to equal a grand total of 2,496 steps (not counting the 52 from the interview), which was, coincidentally enough, nearly exactly how many hours Quinn had gone without drinking prior to the drink that she'd had that caused the accident that had landed her in this place in the first place. Quinn thought that the whole thing had a certain symmetry to it.

Tonight, there were far more 'volunteers' at the center then there had been on Wednesday, but then Quinn was early, so a lot of the moderators would be packing up in a matter of minutes. "Hey, Franks!" Jolie, a platinum blonde woman of about 30 called excitedly, waving in Quinn's direction when her feet touched ground. Quinn smiled, gliding across the room to Jolie's station. She let her hands rest on the woman's shoulders, happy to see that Jolie wasn't on the phone, but in a chat session. She placed a kiss on her cheek. "Hey, Jolly," she said in greeting. "Anything exciting happening?"

Quinn's hands moved to massage the tension out of Jolie's shoulders, and the woman leaned back into the embrace, murmuring her appreciation. Jolie, Joie when she was still an actress, had seen her world come crashing down 6 years ago because of her drug addiction. She was clean five years now, (she had a minor relapse in the beginning) but acting was no longer an open avenue for her. She sporadically volunteered at the center whenever she felt old urges spring up. Jolie was Quinn's Brittany. She even had blue eyes.

"Things are actually good," Jolie said with a bright smile. "We got a new client through a referral, and it looks like things are about to really start picking up."

"That's great!"

Jolie nodded. "After all this time, it's nice to see things on the upswing. I was thinking about having a barbecue next Saturday to celebrate. Will you come?"

Quinn put a finger to her lips. "You know, I think I might be free. Count me on the list."

"Awesome! Why are you here so early?"

Quinn shrugged casually. "I was finished early, so I thought I'd come in." So it was a lie, but intention didn't matter if good came out of your actions, right? Jolie nodded. Quinn gave her shoulders one last squeeze, before she sat down in her seat. As she signed in she realized that this was the first time in nearly six months that she had gotten here early. Some might confuse this with actually getting into the spirit of volunteering. Quinn knew it was because she was anxious about getting the chance to talk to Nohbdy again, and she didn't want to miss her, if she did come back onto the site.

She pulled the manual to her, signed into the terminal, pulled out a book, and waited for her first person of the night to contact her. It was 9:40, 20 minutes to her shift.

Both her phone and her chat session remained empty. Quinn couldn't concentrate on the book, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, so she listened to the conversations that surrounded her. On most, the talk was about normal things, fashion, clothes, celebrities; one was about old friends and Quinn was reminded that she needed to call up Cindy when she woke up tomorrow. Quinn had reminders set to remind her to call which friend and when written down in her address book, so she could remember to keep her relationships alive. Otherwise she might go too much time without talking to people she was supposed to keep in her life. Luckily, Cindy required only a monthly conversation.

Cindy was her Tina. She was slightly younger than Quinn, round faced, loved to dye her hair, and had an 'alternative' dressing style. When Quinn first moved out to LA, she was insistent on making friends, and doing so without anyone else pointing her in the direction of who she should be friends with. Since making friends was a new experience for her, she found herself making friends with people who reminded her, oddly, of the people that she'd left behind. She matched race and personality up as well as she could (her new Mercedes was nearly the same skin color as Mercedes, but was way skinnier. Her Artie was in a wheelchair and wore glasses, but he was a red head, her Zizes, Ramona, lacked the confidence Lauren had, but was the same size, etc). At first she didn't realize what she was doing, and then once she did, she figured she should see it through to the end. It wasn't as difficult, or as surprising, as one might imagine; there were a lot of people in LA, and she had done the same thing her senior year in high school with the skanks, and there had been far fewer people to choose from then. So she assembled her Glee kids look-alikes with very little trouble, but she never hung out with them together, because that would have seemed too weird. Especially if a picture was taken and the real Glee kids actually saw it.

The only two missing from her collection had been Brittany, who she had finally found with Jolie, and Rachel, who she didn't try to find at all. She actually stumbled across Jolie after she had stopped trying to create a new new New Directions, but she still thought of her as her Brittany. Oh, and Santana. She had never found someone to make an adequate Santana.

Quinn checked the time again. 9:43. Her phone rang. She set a smile on her face. "Thank you for calling the Lighthouse, this is Emily, let's chat!"  
The phone went dead in her ear. That happened at least once a night, usually by someone who either dialed the wrong number, or someone who pretended to dial the wrong number.

She got a chat request a few minutes later and connected it, but left her terminal open so she would have another window open for Nohbdy. Quinn thought about that statement, and ended up laughing. She hoped that Polyphemus at least had a good laugh later about losing nobody.

Quinn felt a tap on her shoulder, and she looked up. It was Tishawna with her clipboard, and a smile on her face, obviously pleasantly pleased to see Quinn. Quinn smiled back at her, and Tishawna moved down the line. The supervisors had their own private office, but Tishawna still sat at a terminal out here with the rest of them. Quinn wondered about her back story, if this had once been her sentence, and she just never left.

Quinn got so caught up in chatting with her person, Nicholai-who was going on about vintage cars (he liked the 1963 Maserati Series II Sebring Convertible, Quinn preferred the AC Frua), that she forgot to keep her eye on the clock. 9:59. 10:00 had just crept up on her. It felt like she held her breath until the numbers changed 1…0…0…0. 10:00. Or 8 in binary. Her cursor blinked in the empty window, taunting her.

Nicolai: Hands down, though, nothing beats the 1955 Vette.

Quinn couldn't take her eye off of the clock. 1…0…0…1 10:01 or 9 (in binary).

_**Emily:**__ If you're going to cheat then, sure. Go with the original. I thought you wanted creative. And I like the 1961 'Vette so much better. Looks more like a woman. _

Her hazel eyes flickered back to the counter. 10:02. Nohbdy wasn't going to get on. At 10:05 Quinn got notification of a chat request.

_**Moderator**__: Hello. This is the Lighthouse. My name is Emily. How are you?_

_**User:**__ is that your programmed response? _

_**Emily:**__ No, just my response to you._

Quinn typed out a message to her car enthusiast.

_**User:**__ How do you know that it's me?_

_**Emily:**__ How do you know that it's not?_

_**User:**__ Ha ha, I like you Emsie. I just got finished watching 'Blue is the Warmest Color'. Have you seen it?_

_**Emily:**__ No. Should I watch it? Did you like it?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ I didn't actually watch it._

_**Emily:**__ Then why did you say that you did?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Because you said you were a lesbian. I was trying to connect with you, "on your level". _

_**Emily:**__ Aren't you a lesbian? And I never said that I was a lesbian._

_**Nohbdy:**__ But you have gotten with the ladies, right?_

_**Emily:**__ When the mood strikes me. I think the term for that is bi._

_**Nohbdy:**__ I think the term for that is gross. J/K. Love is a river, and there are some who go with the flow, and others who veer off in the estuaries, or chart their own course._

_**Emily:**__ That's…poetic._

_**Nohbdy:**__ I can have a way with words sometime. You should see what I do with Oh…God…and harder. I make them sound like a symphony. _

Quinn reread those words, and decided to ignore them.

_**Emily:**__ Do you like poetry? _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Depends on the poem._

_**Emily:**__ Do you believe in fate?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Depends on the fate._

_**Emily:**__ You're a regular smart ass, aren't you?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Yep. Better than an irregular one. I was that, once, but yogurt fixed that right up. I prefer Chobani, what about you?_

_ …_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Oikos, then? What's fate?_

_**Emily:**__ You said you're Nohbdy , and I'm Emily, and Emily Dickinson has a poem about Nohbdy. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Emily Dickinson wrote a poem about nobody? That's weird, why would you write a poem about nobody? Wait…who's Emily Dickinson?_

_**Emily:**__ You're kidding, right? _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Tut, tut. Not every body goes to college, not every body grows up like you did, not every body has your knowledge, no need to treat me like a kid…hmmm…nah, I don't like it. I was trying to make you a poem, but didn't work. So are you nobody, too, then?_

_**Emily:**__ Sometimes I feel like that. Quinn admitted openly. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ That's sad. I'm not really Nohbdy, I'm just pretending so I can get away. I'm beginning to think that you didn't read the Odyssey. _

_**Emily:**__ Say Odysseus._

_ … _

Quinn imagined the girl (?) saying Odysseus out loud, even knowing that that's probably not what Quinn wanted.

_**Emily:**__ Type it._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Bossy._

_**Emily:**__ You have no idea._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Hmm…I can imagine. Odysseus. _

_**Emily:**__ You're not drunk._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Not tonight. _

_**Emily:**__ So you're like this sober, too?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ I was born without a filter. _

_**Emily:**__ I'm beginning to see that. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Should I be drunk?_

_**Emily:**__ It's just that it's late, and you're still up._

_**Nohbdy:**__ I work nights, and you're up, too. _

_**Emily:**__ I'm three hours behind you, and just because the court orders community service doesn't mean that I automatically have time in my schedule to carry it out. I get pretty busy during the day; this was just the time I had available. _

As she typed the words Quinn realized that she had other reasons for choosing the shift that she did. She'd chosen the drunken hours of the morning for a reason. She was living vicariously through the people that called in since she couldn't have a drink herself.

_**Nohbdy:**__ But you don't have a 9 to 5?_

_**Emily:**__ If I worked a 9 to 5 I'd be working about 20 fewer hours every week."_

_**Nohbdy:**__ When do you sleep?_

_**Emily:**__ Lol, whenever I can. I really like my 3 p.m. power naps. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Do you know why I'm always up at night?_

_**Emily:**__ No clue._

_**Nohbdy:**__ I'm a vampire._

_ …_

_**Nohbdy:**__ You know, one of the undead? I can't go out in the day time. The sun burns my skin. I'm one of the last of the American vampires. Sometimes it gets lonely. _

_**Emily:**__ Umm…_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Thank you for letting me share that with you. I'm not really supposed to talk about it with anyone. _

_ Quinn thought very carefully about what she was going to respond. She went with safe. _

_**Emily:**__ I'm sorry you get lonely sometimes. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ You're really sitting there thinking that I think I'm a vampire, aren't you? I was just shitting you. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Shit, your filter really sucks. I'm not really one of the undead._

_**Emily:**__ You sure you're not drunk._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Nope, stone sober._

_**Emily:**__ Me, too._

_**Nohbdy:**__ You sound like you resent that._

_**Emily:**__ I 'sound' like something? That's strange. We're talking through chat."_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Smart alec._

_**Emily:**__ My name's Emily, not Alec._

_ …_

_**Emily:**__ Annoying, isn't it?"_

_**Nohbdy:**__ I just want to say that whoever trained you for this, should be fired. _

_ Quinn laughed so hard that she got looks from her coworkers. _

_**Emily:**__ Are you saying that I suck at my job. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Pretty much._

_**Emily:**__ Eh…well you get what you pay for._

_ …_

_**Nohbdy:**__ I think I like you. You're fun._

_**Emily:**__ Ummm…thanks._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Don't pretend you're not flattered. People flock for my attention. Feel privileged. _

_**Emily:**__ I bask in the waves of your approval._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Of course you do. You're surprising. _

Quinn found this an odd statement coming from the person she was talking to. 'She' was nothing but a surprise.

_**Nohbdy:**__ It's refreshing. Most people don't surprise me. _

_**Emily:**__ And why is that?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Don't know. I think God only had a template for like 20 personalities, so everyone's just a mix of those 20, and most aren't even blended all that well._

_**Emily:**__ Only 20, huh? So you don't think that there's any originals out there?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Think about it. There's 7 billion plus people out there. Even if you're one in a million that means that there are 7, 243 people out there that are just like you. _

_**Emily:**__ And yet we all like to pretend that we're so different from everyone else._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Because life would be easier if we didn't have to go through it alone, and who wants easy?_

_**Emily:**__ Is that what it is? You are wise beyond your years. How many years are you anyway?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ More than 2, less than 80. _

_**Emily:**__ Me too. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ We have something in common! We should celebrate? Dinner at my place. You bring the wine, I'll bring the naked. _

_**Emily:**__ Do you make so many sex jokes because your sex life lacks, or because sex is always on your mind?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ The only thing lacking in my sex life is you, babe. _

_**Emily:**__ You're right. With lines like that, how can you not be bringing home the ladies?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Damned right._

_**Emily:**__ You don't have to do that, here, you know. This is a judgment free space._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Horseshit. There's no such thing as judgment free space. We are humans, we judge, and you have judged me, and I have judged you, the only thing is, I'm never wrong. I'm close to perfect._

_**Emily:**__ I'm just saying. That if you want to talk for real, you can do that, too. We don't know each other, we're never going to meet, so you don't have to worry about impressing me. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Wow, you think highly of yourself, don't you?_

_**Emily:**__ Nope, just letting you know that you can be yourself. I won't make you feel too bad about it. _

Quinn wouldn't have said that with any other contact, but this girl (?) was different.

_**Nohbdy:**__ I will keep that in mind. _

_**Emily:**__ So how about maybe a name?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Can't do that. _

_**Emily:**__ Why not?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ B/c you haven't told me yours, yet._

_**Emily:**__ It's Emily._

_**Nohbdy:**__ No, it's not. Nobody is actually named Emily, scientific fact, and if it was, you would have said something about me calling you Emsie, or you would have gone into some anecdote about how your best friend Heather used to call you Emily, because you tend to go on._

_**Emily:**__ I tend to go on?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ See, you admitted it. Is your name Emily?_

_**Emily:**__ For now it is._

_**Nohbdy:**__ What is it when you're not Emily? _

_**Emily:**__ It's whatever you want it to be._

_ It struck her how true that statement kind of was. Her whole life was her acting like she was somebody else, usually someone other people wanted her to be. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ I see what you did there. Clever girl. Tell you what, I'll give you 10 chances to guess my name. On the off chance you hit it, I'll tell you. And as an added bonus, I'll tell you what I'm wearing right now. Hint: It's not much._

It actually took every ounce of restraint in her not to type the name 'Santana'. She knew the girl wasn't actually Santana, but the idea of it was just so irresistible. She didn't want to be back in Lima, or even on the East Coast at all, but from time to time she did miss what they had all shared. Out of home, the only thing she missed more than Rachel was her, and really she missed Santana somewhat more; the two of them had fewer bad memories…well, they had ended things on a better note. Somewhat.

_**Emily:**__ Why all the clock and dagger?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ You mean, what is in a name?_

Quinn grimaced. An annoying poet who quoted Shakespeare and was consistently horny. It made her heart ache in a good way.

_**Emily:**__ Are you worried that I'll Facebook you or something if you tell me your name?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Honestly?_

_**Emily:**__ Sure._

_**Nohbdy:**__ I like the idea of being anonymous. I like the idea of you not knowing who I am, or anything about me._

_**Emily:**__ Why?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Why else? We wear the mask that grins and lies. It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes. This debt we pay to human guile, with torn and bleeding hearts we smile, and mouth with myriad subtleties. Why should the world be over-wise, in counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us while, we wear the mask, we smile, but, O great Christ, our cries. To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile. Beneath our feet, and long the mile. But let the world dream otherwise. We wear the mask!_

_ …_

Quinn read it through again, slower this time, taking in every word, savoring them. It was a sad poem, no doubt, but it resonated somewhere deep down inside of her. She thought about the man different faces she put on on a daily basis.

_**Emily:**__ That's…strangely apropos. Did you write that?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ No, but it's mine. I Columbused it. _

_**Emily:**__ You what?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ I discovered it and have thus claimed it as mine._

_**Emily:**__ So who wrote it?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Paul Laurence Dunbar. _

_**Emily:**__ Never heard of him._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Have you ever heard of a book called "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings?"_

_**Emily:**__ I thought…didn't that woman who recently died write that? I can't remember her name. _

_ …_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Maya Angelou. _

_**Emily:**__ Her. I thought she wrote that book._

_**Nohbdy:**__ She did. Her autobiography. But Paul wrote "Sympathy", which is a poem about understanding feeling caged. Maybe I should have shared that with you instead, but I don't know that one off of the top of my head. How about you look it up? That's going to be your homework._

_**Emily:**__ You're giving me homework?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Yep. Idle minds are the devil's playground. I'm trying to reclaim yours._

_**Emily:**__ Are you religious._

_**Nohbdy:**__ You mean am I Christian?_

_**Emily:**__ That's not what I asked._

_**Nohbdy:**__ But that's what you meant? 67% of the world's population practices a religion other than Christianity, and yet there's this assumption that Christianity = religious. Yes, I'm religious. I worship Krishnu and Tu Er Shen._

_**Emily:**__ Que? Who is Tu Er Shen? What is Tu Er Shen?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ What is Jeopardy? Tu Er Shen is a homoerotic Chinese deity who answers the prayers of gay men. He has served me well._

_**Emily:**__ Er…are you a man now?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ No, but I've been hoping that he looks favorably on all homos, not just the men. Why did you ask me if I was religious? Isn't that one of the three things you're not supposed to discuss with people?_

_**Emily:**__ Did it offend you? You mentioned that you were trying to reclaim my soul. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Oh._

_**Emily:**__ I did offend you, didn't I?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Gay chick…Christianity hasn't been very kind to me._

_**Emily:**__ Christians haven't, Christianity is merely a vehicle._

_**Nohbdy:**__ So, you're religious in the Christian since, huh?_

_**Emily:**__ Actually…no. I go to church on Sundays, and when I'm feeling particular ambitious, I'll occasion a Wednesday too, but no. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Then why go?_

_**Emily:**__ Habit. Sense of belonging. It's a big world out here; church makes it a little smaller. I come from a religious family…and prayer settles me a little._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Do you think there's anyone listening on the other side?_

_**Emily:**__ I don't know. I honestly don't. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ I do. _

_**Emily:**__ You know that there's someone on the other side?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Gotta be. I'm pretty damn near close to perfect, and I'm pretty sure that I can walk on water, so that means that there's a God, right?_

_ …_

Quinn couldn't really figure out if she had just fallen in love or just the world's weirdest caller in existence, though she was pretty close to leaning towards the first one. So what if she was weird, she was entertaining, and definitely made time pass. Quinn could see the light at the end of the tunnel for the first time since she walked down those stairs.

_**Nohbdy:**__ You can laugh, I won't hold it against you. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Still there, Emsie?_

_**Emily:**__ You don't have to worry about me prematurely ending the chat session. The stated mission of this call center is to provide an encouraging ear for those who need someone to listen, so technically you could say anything you want, and I'd still respond, so you shouldn't worry that I'm going to end the chat session. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Anything? _

_**Emily:**__ We are allowed to end the sessions if the user talks about things of a sexually explicit nature if it makes us uncomfortable. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Oh, you know me so well._

_ Quinn was fairly certain that she didn't know this person at all. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ I'm not suicidal, if that's what you are worrying about._

_**Emily:**__ Well good. This isn't a suicide hotline._

_**Nohbdy:**__ I just wanted you to know that. 3:00 is a lonely hour for me, and there was a QR code on the poster. I was kind of hoping that this was for a sex hotline. I'm horny at 3:00 a.m. too. _

_**Emily:**__ It's not a sex hotline._

_**Nohbdy:**__ I noticed. _

_**Emily:**__ Why'd you sign back in?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ You seemed like you needed me. _

_**Emily:**__ Why would I need you?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Because two lost souls need each other sometimes. Fate, as you said. I'm going to tell you a story. You ready?_

_**Emily:**__ I have a choice?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Nope. This guy decides to visit his girlfriend one morning, so he calls out of work, and heads over to her apartment in the Village, turning off his cell phone, the TV, and the radio so that he can concentrate on making sweet love to her all morning long. Around 11 o'clock he turns on his phone, and sees that he has like a kabillion missed calls._

_**Emily:**__ How many is a kabillion?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ You're messing up the story._

_**Emily:**__ Sorry, I just wanted clarification._

_**Nohbdy:**__ N E WAYZ! He sees that he has a heck of a lot of missed calls. His phone starts to ring and he answers it. It's his wife. "I've been trying to call you for over two hours! I've been worried sick about you! Are you OK?!" He answered calmly that he was fine. The wife then asked, "Where are you?"  
The guy said, "Where do you think I am? I'm in my office!" The wife then responds, "Turn on the TV." Agitated, he hangs up, but he does like his wife commands. _

_**Emily:**__ And so what happened?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ It was September 11th and he worked on the 103rd floor of the WTC. _

_Saved from death by adultery, that was a new one._

_**Emily:**__ That's one lucky bastard. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ You would think. So realizing that his wife pretty much has solid proof that he's cheating, he frantically gets in his car, and heads back towards home, and ends up getting into a car accident dying instantly. _

_ …_

_**Emily:**__ I don't get it._

_**Nohbdy:**__ He was only still alive because he was cheating on his wife, but then he gets in a car accident and dies anyway._

_**Emily:**__ Yeah, but I don't get its importance to our conversation. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Oh! I forgot the moral. Okay, so if I stopped the story after I told you that he worked at the WTC, then it's a 'I'm only still alive because I cheated on my wife, but now she's going to make me wish I was dead story, which is just ironic. But because I added that bit about him dying anyway, it changes the story. Moral: Sometimes fate works in your favor, and sometimes both fate and karma make you their bitch. _

_ …_

_**Nohbdy:**__ I guess I didn't have a point. I just like telling that story, though. Especially when someone thinks I'm cheating._

_**Emily:**__ Do you cheat a lot?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ You have to be in a relationship to cheat. It was just a joke._

_**Emily:**__ Is it true? The story? _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Doubtful. If a guy didn't show up for work on that day, the FBI would have probably been at his girlfriend's door before he could have even pulled his pants up. _

_**Emily:**__ Nice visual image there._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Not for me. I prefer the pants to be down. Like on the floor. Are you wearing pants?_

_**Emily:**__ No, they let me show up for work with nothing on at all._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Hot._

Wanky_, Quinn corrected. She gave the slightest of sighs. Well that one word shattered the belief that she was somehow talking to Santana Lopez. She mentally chided herself. There were more than 365 million people in this country, what were the odds of that actually happening? _

_**Emily:**__ Vivienne?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Do I strike you as a Vivienne? I could be a Vivienne. I've never met a Vivienne that was ugly._

_**Emily:**__ Have you ever met any Vivienne's?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ No, but I imagine that they all have black hair, and green eyes. Oh, and a huge rack. And a smoky voice. I have this thing about smoky voices. Do you smoke?_

_**Emily:**__ From time to time. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Gross. Do you smoke weed?_

_**Emily:**__ I have. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Done anything harder?_

_**Emily:**__ I plead the fifth. You?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ I work at night, what do you think?_

_**Emily:**__ I think that's a no, then. Jasmine?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ You must think I'm hot. And not white. _

_**Emily:**__ What makes you say that?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Have you ever met a white Jasmine? Ooh, that sounds like that'd make a good fragrance line. "White Jasmine". I should look into that. _

_**Emily:**__ Alike._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Alike? _

_**Emily:**__ Pronounced uh lee kay. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ The Deal or No Deal model? I can dig it. That's 3. 7 more to go._

_**Emily:**__ Samantha? Laura/Laruen? Ashley, Priya! Rebecca?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ What made you say that name? _

_**Emily:**__ Which one? Rebecca? Is that it? Is that your name?_

_ …_

_**Emily:**__ That's it!_

_**Nohbdy:**__ No. Sorry, I knew a Rebecca. _

_**Emily:**__ Was she hot?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ No. Not hot, beautiful. Smart. Kind of neurotic, but she was my best friend. _

_**Emily:**__ Did she die?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ May as well, but no. She's not really something, someone I'm comfortable talking about. _

_**Emily:**__ Ok. What're you wearing?_

_ …_

_**Nohbdy:**__ ROFLMAO! I know people type that all the time, but I am seriously rolling on the floor laughing my ass off. I mean literally, I think I lost a pound. You're perfect, you know that? I don't are that you're an alcoholic, never change!_

_ …_

_**Emily:**__ I'm not an alcoholic._

_**Nohbdy: **__Last time you said that you might be a drunk._

_**Emily: **__ Well, I'm not._

_**Nohbdy:**__ How long has it been since the last time you had a drink?_

_**Emily:**__ 7 and a ½ months. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ You realize that totally makes you an alcoholic, right?_

_**Emily:**__ How does not having a drink for 7 and a ½ months make me an alcoholic?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ It's not the fact that you haven't had a drink, it's that you know the last time you had one. That's what makes you a drunk._

_**Emily:**__ I know because I haven't had a drink since the week before my trial. That's why I know. You kind of remember having to go before a judge; it's not something that you really forget. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Okay._

Quinn ground her teeth, because that was obviously a dismissal, and what right did Nohbdy have calling her a drunk and then dissmissing her? What did she know anyway? Nothing.

There were no words between them for a few minutes, and Quinn took the time to respond back to her other user, the car enthusiast having signed out two hours ago.

_**Nohbdy:**__ It's 4:49. Are you getting off soon?_

Quinn wondered if Nohbdy was trying to get rid of her. She was surprised that it was as late as it was, she didn't notice the time passing so quickly, but she was upset, and a little annoyed that Nohbdy was dismissing her.

_**Emily:**__ Depends. Are you watching the sunrise today?_

In her head, she imagined the girl grinning brightly.

_**Nohbdy:**__ Yea, I thought about it. _

_**Emily:**__ Well, if you want to still talk to a drunk, then I think I can stick around until then._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Good. They don't start serving breakfast at my favorite diner until 6:00 anyway. _

_**Emily:**__ You're back in New York?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Momentarily. Just got back a few before I logged on, actually, and I'll be in town until Thursday. Planning on stalking me?_

_**Emily:**__ Pretty hard to talk someone from 3,000 miles away, especially when you don't know what they look like, or where they live._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Hmm…I guess…_

_**Emily:**__ What're you getting at your diner?_

_**Nohbdy:**__ Griddle cakes. Nice, unhealthy buttery, syrupy griddle cakes, with chocolate milk, and a fruit bowl on the side. _

_ Quinn's mouth watered. It wasn't fair. _

_**Emily:**__ Sounds nice._

_**Nohbdy:**__ Jealous, Emsie? You can be. I'm single, you only live once, and I don't care if I become a total fatty; I'm exhausted and I need something that's going to put me down. _

The last hour passed by with surprising quickness. She didn't want to stop talking to this girl (she really, really hoped it was a girl), but she had this aching feeling in her stomach that this was their last conversation. Talking twice, that was one thing, but three times in a row, that meant that they actually enjoyed each other. Quinn was surprised by how much she liked talking to her mystery caller. Before she knew it, it was hitting firmly against 3:00. She sighed because her day started at 7:00 tomorrow, and it almost wasn't worth even bothering going to sleep. And because it was 3:00 and this might be it.

But Nohbdy once again seemed in tune with her.

_**Nohbdy:**__ It's night, night time. When do you work again?_

_**Emily:**__ Wednesday, 10:00-2:00. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ Well…are you going to send that little link thingy? _

_ Quinn quickly did so. She chided herself at how quickly she sent off the email. _

_**Emily:**__ So I'll talk to you on Wednesday? _

_ Quinn was suddenly anxious for the answer, but Nohbdy didn't disappoint. _

_**Nohbdy:**__ It's a date. Don't forget to dream of me. ;-). _

[Session ended at 3:00 a.m.]

Quinn found herself smiling. She tidied up the station for the next person. Nohbdy was annoying, and kind of hard to take, she was wildly inappropriate, and apparently sensitive, but Quinn couldn't remember having so much fun just chatting with someone, real or imaginary, in a long time. She sent the convo to the printer.

"Frankie, a word," Tishawna called, breaking into Quinn's happy little bubble. Quinn dragged herself over to where Tishawna was monitoring a call.

"Yes?" She wasn't sure if she should add the 'ma'am' and so she didn't.

"I just wanted to thank you for going above for a caller. It's appreciated, and I admire your dedication." She smiled. "That's all I wanted to say."

She let out an inner sigh of relief, worried that the woman was about to tell her that she was going to tell the courts that she needed to be saddled with more community service.

"Oh. Thank you."

Tishawna gave one last smile. "Keep up the good work!"

Quinn remembered to pick up the print out of their conversation off of the printer before she headed up the stairs. She took out her cell phone, and saw that she had a missed call from Heath.

**Heath: (1:47 a.m.): Text me when you get off, and I'll pick you up.**

She considered. The Village really was so much closer to than her house. Right before she was about to text him back, she saw she had another unread text.

**Angelicka (7:00 p.m.)**_**: You got it! **_

Quinn read and reread the text. It looked like things really were looking up. She may have, possibly, found a Santana for a collection she realized she hadn't stopped collecting, she just got a role she really wanted, and she wouldn't be sleeping alone tonight. Oh, and she had Wednesday to look forward to.

All in all, it wasn't a bad day. She almost didn't count the steps as she walked up them and out of the building.


	5. On Hiatus

This work is currently on hiatus.


End file.
